Erick Mwiya's Katutura Tour

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Windhoek West

Plate of plenty for a price.

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

Water station.

Keeping cool: out and away from the hot tin.

Private shower. 

Piled for safe keeping until the next trip north.

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

Meat drying day.

Saturday morning walk.

The most recent spread of Katutura to the west.

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

Mopane worms.
Highly nutritious but
 seasoning is necessary.

Before.

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

Back to Damaraland where it's 200 degrees!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

At the Dinosaur Tracks Guest Lodge.

Damara Mopane Lodge.

Claiming the best seats for the sundowner.

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

Mopane leaves.

Qualeas filling the night sky.

Schlink family on Christmas Eve.

Merry Christmas, giraffe carvings!
Twyfelfontein 

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

Erindi Elephants, Lions, and San Tribesmen

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

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

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

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

Mud bath at the watering hole.

Meat sweats.

Credit: Mark

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

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

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

San children. Photo credit: Mark

Really Good Bread in Windhoek

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The bakery staff. Photo courtesy of Stephaan Coetzee

Okambara Elephant Lodge

To see elephants in Namibia, most people choose to visit the Erindi Game Reserve which is 2.5 hours north of Windhoek. In fact, most of us assume that it's the closest, fastest way to see one. I thought that too until I came across the Okambara Elephant Lodge about 1.5 hours east of Windhoek. When I told this to friends and colleagues, everyone's response was of a surprised one. For all we know, out east, there's nothing but farmland past the airport. Oh, and Gobabis, the epicenter of Cattle Country. It's a place I certainly want to visit too.

The drive past the airport is nothing short of boring. Straight, smooth with and row after row of farm fields. It's the kind of road where tired drivers are at their worst. Eventually, the asphalt ends and gravel begins at the turn off and leads the way to a large supply of hunting reserves stuffed with overly healthy springbok, kudu, and other game.

A few turns later and we were greeted by enthusiastic (and likely bored) children running out of their farm houses to open up the cattle gates. Some children wore pants, some didn't. Handing them cash and treats, we sidled onto another country road potholed and soggy from a recent rain. (The whole time Mark and I laughing our evil, sardonic laugh as we splashed through the water and mud. You see, once upon a time there was a Foreign Service Officer who jockeyed for our attention to buy their 2 wheel drive SUV on the insistence that one could go "literally anywhere" with 2WD. Long story short, we didn't buy that car and lived happily ever after).

Finding our way to the lodge, we were greeted by supremely friendly German interns, several  peacocks, a really mean macaw, and a big pig. The interns checked us in by handing over a set of keys and that was that. Our "room" had 2 levels, 2 bedrooms, 2 balconies, and a bathroom. No AC, but the breeze was encouraging. (We would soon find the first night to be miserable trying sleep in nets and blowing bugs our our noses, but the second night would be perfectly fine.) Almost immediately the kids disappeared to explore the water hole, the neon swimming pool, and to visit the rescued cheetahs and caracals. The cheetahs were collared and the caracals were sunning on a grassy patch, both of which made them look like harmless house cats.

As the afternoon wore on, I became increasingly happy about the choice I had made to come here. We met the German owner who had his interns set up an roaring fire for grilling. He turned giant slabs of eland while telling me how he bought the land 27 years ago and built it up to over 15,000 hectares (nearly 58 square miles). In a delightful combination of free labor and job skills building, the owner uses unpaid interns to run the lodge. Most of them stay for three months before returning back to Germany. There's rarely a shortage of interest and the interns find out about it mainly by word-of -mouth. Emails get exchanged, and 6-9 months later the interns are "hired" and paid by room and board. Every single one of them we spoke to absolutely loved the experience. Granted, most of them served dinner with bed head and without shoes, but the customer service was great and they let the our children chase goats and pet porcupines and play with fire.

Let's talk about the food: each night we ate two or three different kinds of meat. I tried wildebeest liver and loin as well as eland and oryx cuts. Dinnertime began each night with a multilingual menu presentation: Damara, German, and English. We sat (happily) through multiple courses and ate until we could hardly breathe. Porcupines came to visit, bribed by scattered dried corn kernels. They were very shy, panting like dogs as they hoovered up corn. My friend Lisa egged me on to grab a spine from the source, but I never could muster up the courage despite my excitement. 

Breakfasts were basic, but extremely delicious with fresh bread, yogurt, cheese, and meats. But the lunch? Well... people here love mayonnaise and put it in everything. The lunch menu was literally "mayonnaise-meat-salad." Unfortunately, Deets and Margo chose an unsavory time to misbehave and sadly were forced to eat their lunch (not all of it- I'm no monster). I, sadly watched them gag down their last bites, but I had to stand my ground. Poor kids.  All was forgiven when they finally and politely excused themselves.

During the weekend we signed up for a game drive, opting to leave at a humane hour of 9:00 am instead our friends who took off at the ungodly 6:00 am hour. Like the name of the lodge, the first animals we saw were elephants. Eight of them moseyed past the truck, not really caring about anything. According to the owner the elephants literally just showed up one day about 3 years ago and never left. As the property lines expanded and the fences went up, they stayed. Only a couple times in his memory did the elephants "escape," wreaking havoc on neighboring farms. I asked him how they got them back in, and he laughed, "very carefully." I really wished he would elaborate, but then again, maybe it's a story best left untold.

We cruised on to other typical African creatures and got to see a nesting ostrich. Our guide said "watch this" and waved a spare ostrich egg he had in the truck, into the air and the ostrich frantically took off. We counted the egg stash (13) and moved onto seeing our first bat-eared foxes. Normally they only come out at night so this was pretty cool. Finally, after increasingly hot 2.5 hour drive we saw found the rhinos, where one had the longest and and scariest horns I have ever seen. 

On the way back we passed a mess of giraffes and cows which filled me with absurd happiness. Seeing them together left with a  total disconnect from where we were. Mark and the kids thought I lost my mind as I demanded a photo be taken of this oddity. Nearly 4 hours later we rolled into the parking lot only slightly stunned from the lengthy venture. We bounced back nicely: the kids took off to harass the interns and while Mark and I shared a bottle of wine. I could really get used to this weird place. 

Okambara

Turrets and everything!

Bat eared fox. Photo credit: Mark.

Seems harmless enough, especially in the grass.

Preparing the fire. 

Scheming; dreaming big.

No filter. Au naturale.

Cow-affe. 

Not. Friendly.

Hey.

Who posed better? The ostrich...

...or the guide? He told me to take his photo.

The great outdoors... and an awkward massage...again.

 If you're going to have an outdoor massage at a game lodge, here are a few things you should know: for starters, when the advertisement says "outdoor massage" it really means out-of-doors. There's no walls, no screens whatsoever. Sounds a little intimidating, but a little chic too.

The receptionist hands you a robe, orders you to strip down to undies, and to bring only what won't fall out of the baggy pockets. At first, the cozy white robe fits all nicely, reaching a comfortable calf length. Then you are guided out to the parking lot where the game drive truck is getting loaded up with a table, towels, and staff. They tell you to get in, but you must quickly figure out how to step up and into the truck without flashing all possible nether regions. You barely make it and sit down in said cozy robe and realize there's absolutely no give in the fabric. The length of the fabric instantly shrinks to mid-thigh leaving you to sit like a 1950's receptionist. The engine revs and the truck sidles down the bumpy road, past interested onlookers. Thank goodness you a) wore your bra, or b) don't need one. 

As the truck drives down the hill, you can still see the lodge up high, the pool a distant blue line. They pick a spot under a few giant trees and slightly behind a few others, and the staff sets to work while you stand there feeling super awkward in your blaring white robe and flip flops that have already snagged some thorns. But the view. Oh the view! You already drove past giraffes, oryx, warthogs, and baboons, and certainly there are more animals watching. Faintly green camel-thorn trees, bushes, and shrubs smear the dry, yellow-brown landscape. The air is hot on your skin, a nice reassurance when the breeze picks up. Then you look down and realize you are standing in two inches of animal poop. There's really no escaping it. That's okay because in the broken branches, you spot tons of grey and spotted guinea fowl feathers. You pick up a few because they are fun to decorate with, but you end up picking up a feather with bloody skin still attached. So there's a carcass rotting somewhere around here, but that's okay because you are in nature and that's what nature does.

By now the staff has set up the tables, so they bid the driver adieu, relying on spotty cell phone coverage because their radios are broken. The driver takes off like a bat out of hell and the masseuses order us to lay face down. It's cool. You've done this before, let the boobs roam free. Within minutes you are relaxing to the breeze, the buzz of insects, chirping of birds and... grunting of baboons. The time passes quickly until you recall having drank a liter of water prior to starting and now all you can think about is peeing. Peeing behind a bush half naked in a towel is not terrible thing, nor is sheepishly asking your masseuse to stop so you get up. It's not terrible when you stumble under the blinding sun to "privacy" and see a dozen waterbuck staring you down as you squat. What's terrible is that you waited too long, and you belatedly realize that you are peeing right into your flip flops and adjusting your position means you drop the towel and you pee on that too. Because, there's no stopping midstream. 

There's probably 5 or 10 minutes left to relax, so you hope that the masseuse didn't notice anything weird. Never mind the damp towel or muddy flip flops. You lay down on your back and force yourself into a state of zen. It's the perfect time to have the wind pick up and blow the towel right off your body which sends you into a fit of giggles. What else are you going to do? Perhaps it's an unceremonious finish, but decide this was all worth it when your partner in crime (your mom) wakes from her perfect massage, completely unaware of anything that had transpired. One bra, two robes, and shoes are back on while you wait for the truck to return and you try to make idle chat with the staff, but they already think you're insane and ignore everything beyond their cell phones. 

Finally, the serene moment must come to an end as the truck combi careens around the corner to pick everyone up. You pile into the idling hotbox, the driver first sets off the car alarm, and then attempts to drive. Alas, the tires are buried and the go even deeper as he totally guns it. That's what happens when you drive a combi into the soft sand. Take two: you hop back out and wait for proper transportation back to the lodge. Alls well that ends well. You change back into movable clothing, smooth down the oily flyaways on your head and prepare to drink a bottle of wine with your mom just to keep the moment alive for a little bit longer. 

Nope. Not awkward at all.

A joyous giraffe sighting on the way to the bush.

Setting up. Towels are you need in this weather.
But towel-face is a major downer.

Where the magic happened: mother-daughter trees of life. And death.

Oops.