Heja Game Lodge: How NOT to do a game drive

Namibia does game drives well. I love them. I love the excitement of animal sightings and the guaranteed fresh air. I love the scenery and just being able to sit back and let someone else be in charge for a while. When my friend invited me to do a hail Mary game drive before she and the kids took off for the summer break, I immediately agreed. My friend chose Heja Game Lodge for this particular adventure because, a) it's less than 30 minutes outside of Windhoek and, b) she once saw rhinos grazing right off the road. The road being a popular stretch of ruddy asphalt for cyclists and runners. 

The lodge has a unique personality: a hiply decorated bar and lounge area that backs to a brown, dull pond stuffed with ducks and swans. Dusty, scraggly ostriches and warthogs linger among the abandoned pieces of junk, whereas the vividly colored metal playground is just begging for children to acquire extra tetanus shots. Their five (5!) conference centers, scattered among the lodging accommodations are filled with fancy technical options along with rows of tables and chairs covered in sheets of thigh-sticking plastic. No matter, we weren't there for that.

I should have suspected our adventure would be sub-optimal when the driver refused to say hello or introduce himself. But with 5 joyful youths and 3 adults to herd onto the truck, I dismissed this as impatience to get started. Maybe he'd perk up once we left the parking lot. If we ever left, he was driving so slow. Going 20km/hour (12mph) we crawled past the greyed, crabby ostriches, past the fake animals used for practicing archery, and eventually onto the paved road where he stopped in the middle to point out a dead, bloody iguana that had its eyes pecked out. He continued on... going 20km/hr and as my patience withered, my indignation grew. Sure, we spied about a thousand warthogs and hundreds of blesbok, which is a southern African antelope with a helmeted look much like the leatherheads from the early days of football, but the road conditions deteriorated so much that no photos could be taken. Even if we were driving... 20km/hr. 

I loved the mountainous, shrubby surroundings and could even ignore the hundreds of piles of forgotten piping and rotting hay. But when the driver approached the foot of the mountain that we would ascend, I began to get a sick feeling in my stomach. We trusted him to continue because we were in a 4x4 capable of driving in contentiously rocky conditions. And besides, he'd been driving 20km/hr and promised that rhino sightings were just on the other side. Bodies lurched side to side and I tried to imagine a peaceful place where I had an elastic, flexible spine. Every child and adult clung to the metal bars, eyes glued to the steep grade ahead of us.  Sadly, he made it up about 200 feet before the back wheels spun out and sunk into the ruts. Ordering us off the truck, we walked to safety wondering what his next move would be. 

Apparently it was to try to drive up without us and we could hike up behind him. That plan failed miserably, with dust and rocks flying down the hill as he gunned it and then watched him maneuver the vehicle Austin Powers style back down. Into relative safety, and he told us that we had another way around to the back side. I took this to mean he'd take the long, flat way around. Nope. He careened the 4x4, kids and all, up another side of the mountain where the vehicle continued to slip and tilt dangerously. More than once I cursed loudly which gained me stink eye from all the kids not mine. As for the adults, we looked at each other and laughed hysterically to cover up the fact that we were truly worried about losing a kid or two. I love a good thrill, but I had never been so scared on a game drive, including the time when elephants charged the vehicle a few weeks ago.

The driver made it to the top, and certainly the view was breathtaking. Had he bothered to stop, I would have taken more photos. Surrounded by valleys and mountains that were on the downside of the rainy season, tones of brown, yellow, and green stretched as far as the eye could see, buttressed against the endless blue sky.  Down below we could see herds of animals either on the lookout or on the run, and a short-circuited blue wildebeest bucking his way across the flat spots. And no rhinos, which by this time we didn't care about anymore. Exhausted from hanging onto dear life with no breaks, kids (rightfully) started whimpering and the adults announced that enough was enough: we were done.  Of course that meant we needed creep back down the mountain.  The truck lurched forward dangerously, forcing our butts off the seats, as plumes of dust and rocks tumbled down the mountainside. More cursing followed along with dramatic near misses of thorny branches reaching inside the truck. The canvas rooftop even split in two.

We finally it to the base of the mountain and drove back to the public road where our guide decided to gun it back home. Blinded by whipping hair and watering eyes, we literally jolted to a stop in the parking lot, harried and bewildered. The driver swung down from the truck and left us to our own devices (normally they assist passengers to enter/exit). My friend and I eyed each other and marched directly to management. Ever professional and calm, my girlfriend factually explained the situation. Ever the emotional exploder, I was at least smart enough to keep my mouth shut on this round. Completely dismayed, the manager told us the roads leading into the mountains weren't part of the usual game drive route and that it shouldn't have happened. They didn't charge us for our personal three hours of hell, and for that I am grateful.

Luckily we walked away unscathed, but I didn't realize how mentally and physically trying the drive was until I got home. The weariness seeped into my bones, and the breath I had been holding was so intense I almost cried as we all laid down for a long afternoon nap. One day later, the tension in my shoulders and elbows from is enough to remind me of the highly annoying day, but it also reminds me that my friend and I were in it together and that we'd be laughing about it over gin and tonics sooner than later. 

Going on a game drive.

In case you were confused, it's a bar.

Sample of a blesbok

Getting kicked off the truck.

During various points, sombreros, bags,
and hats all flew off the truck.
It wasn't even windy.

Walking the Dog in Windhoek

Technically, Namibia is dog friendly. After all, probably 9 houses out of 10 have dogs. The city has a couple of dog-training parks where you can pay a membership fee to make use of their obstacle courses: tunnels, ramps, zig-zag poles, etc. assuming your dog would be into that sort of thing. There's a great farm where dogs are free to run off leash (assuming the dog is smart enough to stay away from the free roaming cows and bulls). Windhoek has a couple of kennels and countless beauty shops, each with varying degrees of quality, and a decent selection of trustworthy veterinarians. Heck there's even a pool exclusive for doggie swim lessons! Plus, there's the Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals (SPCA) and a handful of other non-profits that deal with the responsibilities of pet ownership, like spaying and neutering services.

Obviously an infrastructure to support pets exists in this country, which is great. But the dogs here just aren't... friendly. Of the 9 houses that do have dogs, there's only 1 other person in my neighborhood who actually walks his. Here, dogs usually serve as one of many tiers for property protection- after the 10 foot walls topped with razor or electrified wire, and before the motion sensor burglar alarms. Most dogs are sequestered outside to guard the perimeter and ward off the unwelcome. They stick their noses and paws underneath the gates, chewing on metal, and savagely snarling and barking at all hours of the day to match the mind numbing "whop whop whop" of the burglar alarms. Alarms that are set off so often, that locals sardonically call it their national anthem.

Anyway. Walking my dog isn't super fun because of all that. More often than not when gates open and close, these "guard dogs" race to escape, eager for a confrontation. Jim and I have been attacked so many times, that I carry a nerdy walking stick to ward off gnashing teeth. The worst part is, the owners get mad at me. One woman told me it was my fault that her husky slipped past the gate to attack my (leashed) dog. Had I "not walked past her property, I wouldn't have been attacked" and that I owed HER an apology.  I'll spare you the other side of that conversation; just picture me with Medusa's head.

So it's weird and uncomfortable, and walking Jim requires a bit of cognitive preparation. Since we are at elevation, the mornings are guaranteed to be cool- 40F or less during fall and winter. I layer up with scarf, hat, gloves and top off the look with saggy sweatpants. He and I take off around 6:30am after the kids get on the school bus. If it's a Monday morning (trash day), we navigate past city-issued trash cans and bags of recycling that have been pilfered by opportunists. The bellowing dogs greet us as we walk past our neighbors and the sound of madness grows as we head down the street. Poor Jim, never having been a barker, simply whines and pulls on his leash.  I never did teach him to heel.

We amble past the high walls, unique to each property, and turn onto a wide main road where we enjoy the silence briefly settle back in. Sounds of barking and howling dogs alternate and mix with passing cars and the harsh screeching of francolin birds. These birds yell as if they're yelling at children to clean up melted ice cream on the couch. Sometimes there's morning construction crews of about here 20-30 who always stop in their tracks to stare down the weird lady in sweatpants and her dog. My morning salutations are usually ignored and we continue on, staying aware of cars that blow past stop signs (everyone) and other potential dog walkers (no one).  In fact, the only people who will say hello to me are the housekeepers huddled at the bus stop waiting for their shifts to start. Nice ladies, really.

There are a few miserable looking joggers, some vigilantly carrying mace, others obliviously rocking out to music. Jim and I speed walk up steep hills and gingerly step down them- both of us a match for sore knees. By 7:00am the sun breaks over the mountain, cascading a glorious shine over the city and surrounding hills. Right after sunset, meal times, and bed time, it's my favorite part of the day. I love these moments: when the dogs are out of earshot, I stand alone with Jim looking over the city. Ironically, Depeche Mode's Enjoy the Silence always winds through my brain and stays there for several hours. At least it gives me tempo to walk home to. I dodge sharp bougainvillea branches creeping over walls, pick countless thorns out of my dog's paws, and stare down the wonk eyed mongrels behind bars, hoping the gates remain closed as we finish the loop. An unsuccessful walk means I had to fight off fugitives and their belligerent owners or save the token idiot dog who's not fierce, but on a death wish as it runs down the street. This happens about once a week. A successful, good walk is the opposite of that. I love how high the bar is set here.

 Our daily walks and the uncertainty that ensues
justify my claim that Jim is the greatest dog ever.

Catching a breath.

Despite the madness of dog-walking, this is why I do it.

Damaraland Is So Badass. And hot.

Over these past few months, nighttime temperatures in Windhoek have been dropping into the low 40s, even 30s. I can't quite say it's legitimately cold (though I desperately want to) compared to Colorado and Missouri winter nights, but it has been chilly enough to warrant sleeping with socks and long pants. Even as I write this at 8:30am, I'm wrapped in fleece and Deets' firetruck sleeping bag. It's 50F. So when we booked a trip to go camping in Damaraland about 4.5 hours north of Windhoek, it seemed reasonable that the nights would be similarly cool. 

I loaded up the car essentially prepared for Snowmaggedon: hats, gloves, long underwear, scarves, and down blankets. I packed a thermos and tons of hot chocolate packets to ward off frosty mornings. Mark simply smiled and said nothing. Turns out the region is a regular hot spot, rarely dropping below 60F at night. Setting up our tents, we didn't even bother with the rainflies. It was quite nice, giving us clear views of the star-packed sky when we finally crawled into bed. At 8:30pm. 

We stayed at the Aabadi Mountain Lodge, a place I picked based off of two things: one, they have an elephant on their webpage and two, the place is locally owned with an emphasis on eco-tourism. Sure, it was rustic compared to Erindi which had personalized toilet paper, but this campsite came with more than what I'd consider the basics: a braai and sink area at each site, open air flushing toilets, and wood burning hot water heaters for the open air showers. It was cool. Like most campsites around the area, there was no fencing which meant wild animals could come and go freely. It was exciting to think a leopard or an elephant could randomly stop by, but I will admit there was a massive fly issue from scattered animal droppings in the area. It was an excellent lesson for the kids and myself who were tempted to bitch and moan about the incessant attacks. Mark, ever the patient one, reminded us that we were all in it together. Overall, there's so much to do in the area that we didn't spend much time hanging out when the flies were at their worst.

For example, we did a game drive one morning. Bumping along the dirt roads we passed by tiny villages with metal shacks and gardens, looking for signs of elephants like footprints, poop, and broken branches. The terrain was incredible and classically Namibian: forever changing from smooth dirt to rocky crevices, up mountains and into valleys. We drove by Burnt Mountain, a 12km extinct volcanic ridge and a mess of dolomite columns called the Organ Pipes. For all the rock nerds, the pipes are vertical molten rocks that pushed up through the earth's surface about 125 million years ago. 

It took the driver three times to find what he was looking for: a herd of desert elephants that were sauntering along the dried out riverbeds. He'd drive out to the main road to get phone reception, then venture back in. We finally spotted a group of 11 elephants shading themselves in some trees. With rising temperatures, their ears were flapping to cool them down. A bull arrived a few minutes later shoving adolescents aside to get prime time shade. Babies were passed out under the protective guard of their mothers, and one was nursing. NURSING! It's "tiny" body tucked right underneath mom's armpit, its mouth latched on with its adorable trunk fidgeting like a child. I cried. 

When one of the elephants woke up from her nap, she trumpeted angrily, forcing the driver to quickly back up and give more space. In unison the elephants peed and crapped all over, before moving down the riverbed further. We sat in the ever roasting sun, mesmerized. Something like 400 photos later, we wistfully called it quits and headed back to camp for beers. 

Later that same day we took our own car on safari to check out rock paintings but got quickly distracted when we saw the elephants again. Along with a few other cars, we sat taking photos, turning on the engines periodically to give them space. We had a joyous time until I managed to drive over discarded fencing wire that wrapped around our drive shaft. We couldn't move the car, and with an approaching elephant herd, we had to come up with a plan. You simply don't mess with elephants. If provoked, these beasts WILL charge. 

Stranded in the middle of the river bed, we half blocked the trucks behind us, essentially putting them in danger, so Mark made an executive decision. He crawled underneath the car still hot with an idling engine and began to untangle the wire by hand. Drivers from other vehicles started yelling at us, thinking he was doing sort of covert sightseeing, and Mark had no choice but to keep going. Luckily one of the drivers was our guide from earlier, and used his truck to block off our back side while another car took the front, effectively triangulating him in. While the kids were obliviously playing in the back seat, my eyes darted from the approaching and progressively rambunctious elephants to the back of Mark's legs sticking out from underneath. I kept checking and rechecking that I was in park, and anxiously waiting for a victorious fix. By the time Mark extracted the 20 feet of wire, we were surrounded by elephants, so Mark jumped in the car and we drove off just as an adolescent trumpeted and charged at our car. Even though it was probably just a threat, we had no qualms getting out of his way. 

At dinner we invited the driver and guide over to our campsite to eat with us, thanking them for their support. Not everyone was amused by the situation and some people lodged complaints, so we were grateful that the Aabadi staff stood by us. Looking back, I'm not sure we should have done anything differently. Perhaps we could have waited longer in the car, but with the setting sun, we didn't have much time to waste. Maybe wire cutters would be a reasonable purchase? Who knows? I guess in the Namibian wild, anything can happen. 

Home sweet home.

Bathrooms with a view.

Burnt Mountain. Credit: Mark

Organ Pipes. Ok- the photo has a detail extraction filter,
BUT the sky was eerily turquoise as the sun began to set.

Sleeping.

Not sleeping.

Oh the sweetness.

While Mark was under the car...
Credit: Deets

Big Momma, goes by Rosie.

Roads in Damaraland

Tell me something. If you needed to go to Khorixas (cor-E-haas) and saw a road sign indicating Khorixas: turn right, and Torra Bay: turn left. You'd turn right. Right? 

Last week we traveled around Damaraland, a huge and rugged territory about 4.5 hours north of Windhoek. Actually, the region has been divided and renamed (Erongo in the south and Kuene in the north) but the name Damaraland still sticks. This land is the kind of spread that gives you goosebumps- either because of its seemingly emptiness (it never is! There's always someone randomly hanging out in the veld) or because of its untamed beauty. 

For four days we explored, encountering things like wild giraffes and elephants, six thousand year old rock paintings, and bold russety mountains. We drove our butts off on the washboard dirt roads which of course meant we would eventually need gas. At the crossroads, we saw our car had 1/4 tank of diesel left and Khorixas was the place to get it. ETA: less than one hour.

So I turned right. I drove. And drove. And drove, nervously glancing at the dwindling fuel range as the landscape turned from the occasional roadside village with huts selling crafts and tire repair services, to a space of rolling off-white hills dotted with deep brown shrubbery. And nothing else. The kids were passed out in the back and Mark was studiously ignoring my rising anxiety. I pictured our dried out skeletons seated against the rusted car with flat tires; a stern and visual lesson for other travelers to always be prepared. 

Despite this self-inflicted drama, 90 minutes later we made it Khorixas with only a few kilometers to spare. Refueled and nerves abated, we drove through the city onto the other side where we saw another road sign that directed us to return from whence we came, but in the opposite direction; in less than half the distance it took to get us there. The irony was not lost on me. Shoulda turned left.

Continuing on, we watched the land turn back into its whacky self as only Namibia can. Along the way we happened upon the UNESCO Petrified Forest and took a lunch break there. Any UNESCO site requires strict supervision, so we were assigned a tour guide to walk us past 120 million year old slabs of petrified fallen trees. Trees that made it to Namibia from the center of the continent, back when it was Gondwanaland. For some reason, the kids LOVED this tour of looking at mostly buried remnants of solid wood. They asked the guide all sorts of questions and were gaga with the notion that these trees were once the size of blue whales. 

Though the tour was quaint and slightly uninspiring, we learned few other floral tidbits. For example, the resin of the commiphora plant is in high demand in places known for making perfume, like France. Himba women burn the branches to extract its resin which is then mixed with red ochre and animal fat. They use it as a fragrance, moisturizer, and sunscreen. I broke off a twig and could smell the rich camphor-like scent. I tried to discreetly rub the twig under my armpits in hopes of dissipating the day's stress sweat. But I mostly ended up looking like a sun-dried ape with bad hair, picking nits off myself. 

We were also educated on the Welwitschia mirabilis plant, named after a botanist who apparently fell to his knees upon seeing them for the first time. Full grown, these coniferous plants look like piles of fat green ribbon strewn about. They can live up to 2,000 years but grow something sad like 2 cm/year. They are mega tough drought-resistant plants and widely admired for their rarity. The plants we walked past were still in their infancy (15 years old) with only two stubby leaves and a fat bark-like center. Talk about a lengthy lifeline. 

Finally I could check petrified wood off the list. Tipping our guide, we mentioned offhand that during the drive we saw a herd of wild giraffes crossing the road. He grew up in Khorixas and had been working at the UNESCO Petrified Forest for nearly 12 years, and he only ever saw giraffes once in his region back in 2012. Wow. I love that the odds were in our favor. 

You've entered Damaraland.

Sunset in Damaraland at the Aabadi Campsite.

 Damaraland, Brandberg Mountains- the highest in Namibia (8,441')
Credit: Mark

15 year old Welwitschia mirabilis
National plant of Namibia

Fully grown, probably 1,000 years old. Google image search. 

Checking for hollowness. Red/orange tints are from iron rich sedimentation, black from magnesium.
The trees were buried under 100s of feet of earth and have been slowly uncovered from erosion.

+/- the length of a blue whale.
The trees are part of the Cordaite family,
related to firs and spruces. Credit: Mark

Twyfelfontein Rock Art

One of the most popular reasons people visit Damaraland (or the Erongo/Kuene regions) is to check out really cool old rocks of various categories: formations, engravings, and paintings. As I mentioned in previous posts, we visited the splendor of the Burnt Mountain and the Organ Pipes. We admired a forest that once stood tall in the middle of Africa now turned to stone through diagenesis.  We cruised past the massive Brandberg Mountain Range and on the way home took a detour to look at Spitzkoppe Peak that is over 120 million years old and maxes out at an elevation of 5,853 feet. They call it the Matterhorn of Namibia. All of this region is a geologist's paradise. Rocks, rocks, and more rocks.

In between these sites, Mark was eager to visit Twyfelfontein, a place better known for man-made rock engravings and paintings. In Afrikaans, Twyfelontein means "doubtful spring" and was named by a farmer who decided to settle in the area back in the 1940's. But before it even had a name, Twyfelfontein was inhabited by nomadic hunter-gatherer San people who are thought to be the first settlers within the region. Seriously, their ancestry traces back more than 30,000 years! At the UNESCO Twyfelfontein site, our guide told us the San might have used rock art to tell stories, record events, teach children, and to communicate between tribes. Tools like white quartz and red ochre mixed with animal fat were used to engrave and paint. Interestingly, since San people were constantly on the move, there are depictions of seals and penguins on the rocks that sit more than 35 hour's worth of walking from the coast, according to Google maps. They made frequent trips out west to gather the salt from the oceans and used it to cure meats.

The surprisingly well-detailed drawings give history experts the impression that the San were excellent travel guides and story tellers. They made maps to watering holes, depicted by a circle with a dot in the middle and recorded the footprints of migrating animals. There was an ostrich drawing that included two heads and four legs in various direction show the rapid movement of these giant birds like a stop-motion cartoon. The lion with a hand for a tail and a kill in its mouth perhaps told a story of a brave hunter who got more bang for his buck, warranting permanent placement on the rock wall of fame.  

Human foot prints: personal signature
Animal foot prints: food sightings
Circle with dots: water sources

The ostrich with two heads and four legs.

Elephant sighting, upper left

Giraffe, lion, springbok

That sky tho'

"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