Cover Photo: First African Sunset

Jan. 11: The Desert Mindset

Our ride to Sesriem Camp wasn't without excitement or beauty. Besides brilliant landscape that I could hardly tear my eyes away from, our loaded bus made a trip up, then down one of the Eros Mountains. As we slowly crawled up the mountain, inching along the road just as my beat-up Chevy Cavalier handles hills, I couldn't help but think about the unavoidable impact the desert has on every living being that crosses its terrain. As the bus trembled and slowed in its course down the mountain and my nerves went slightly on edge, the exasperated thought crossed my mind: "Isn't there a way around the mountain?"

Obviously there wasn't, or we wouldn't have been taking that curvy road. Similarly, the people of Namibia, particularly in the desert regions, must shape their lives to the land's limits, instead of finding a way around it. Though the desert may be considered dried up and without resources, this minimal life may actually yield a more rewarding attitude towards life.

I spoke to a man who worked behind the cash register at Solitaire's General Store -- he had lived in the Namib Desert area his entire life. While I didn't catch his name, I learned a great deal about him in one short conversation.

He asked me where our group was from as he rang up my postcard and ice cream; he seemed particularly interested in what football team played there.

With the answers "South Carolina" and "the Panthers", he smiled in recognition and told me that his favorite team was Minnesota.

Because he seemed like an avid fan, I asked if he had ever traveled to America or seen them play. Looking up at him as he answered -- he was a white, heavier-set man with long hair pulled back into a pony-tail -- he caught my eye and shook his head with the explanation, "I hate traveling on airplanes."

I nodded and said I understood, even though I've never found myself frightened on an airplane, except maybe during landings.

"In fact, I hate traveling in cars, too," he elaborated.

With unabashed curiosity, I asked him why.

He explained that he hated trips into town when he drove his car because it made him feel boxed in -- he seemed to be describing a mild case of claustrophobia.

"Even with the windows down?" I probed in amazement.

He nodded in confirmation and replied, "That's what happens when you live in a desert."

I realized that living in the desert didn't just limit one's resources; it also influences one's mindset. He had lived the desert way of life -- one in which resources may have been scarce but there was open air for miles, unblocked by the physical obstructions of civilization such as walls, windows, or even virtual ones like email. Without these barriers, people form bonds because they're forced to depend on each other in times of need.

Kauna in The Purple Violet of Oshaantu looked to the village's women when she didn't have the tools or time to finish plowing her land. The community of women formed a unit, finishing the needed farming in a day. In cases like this, I can't help but ask myself if I'd rather be stranded in the desert where I may look to my neighbors or even a stranger for survival, or if I would choose to be trapped among all the amenities of society with the ability to be independent, yet alone?

Jan. 12: Dunes Day

We woke at 4:30 a.m. this morning. loaded the bus, and set off on our way to climb a sand dune. Cold air spilled through the windows as we rushed to our destination -- Dune 47, a favorite of Burger's -- hoping to arrive before the sun broke the horizon. When we got there, the dune was smooth, its surface unblemished and no footprints along its curve; the wind had erased any sign of life on the dune before this day. This blank sheet of a dune was exciting in a way -- it was like the dune was exclusively ours, a memory only for our group. Yet, nature would eliminate our footprints as well, in as little as a day. It had taken 5 million years for this dune, 280 meters high, among the 51 other dunes of the Namib Desert to form. Though our time on it may mean everything to us, each step was nothing in the span of its life -- it would be gone with the sweep of the wind.

My legs burned as I hiked up the dune, each foot sinking into sand and with every step becoming harder to pull back out. Finally I sat down and purposely buried my feet into that cool, rust-colored ocean of sand. Looking around, I realized this was better -- no matter how far I got up the slope, nothing could change this view. To describe it would only cause unjust pictures to form in your head; know only that when the sun finally rose above the peak of a far away mountain with clouds the color of grapefruit framing its light, my heart swelled and I could only stare.

Yet even as the beauty of the desert remained unchanged throughout the day -- Burger drove us to another spot where we took a walk through the desert to learn the way its inhabitants survive -- we found that stopping and stare at the ripples in the sand wasn't an option. The merciless heat of the desert was introduced to us and knowing how to face this near evil was essential. Relaying to us the concept of "eat to drink", we found that there are many resources within the desert that provide much needed water. One example is "ostrich salad" a green shrubbery that seemed to comprise most of the desert's plant life. With every bite, this little plant provides a small amount of moisture and relief to a thirsty animal. Also, we found that a small dune beetle holds a substantial amount of water -- Matt especially learned this when he crunched into one for the sake of film. There was also !narda, a pumpkin-like fruit that Burger surprisingly found about a month before they were in season. We all took a bite or two of this foot and enjoyed the scratchy sensation it left in our throats. Walking through a riverbed that hasn't seen flowing water in a about a thousand years -- the desert only receives about 10 mm of rain every 20 years -- it amazed me how this essential element was so scarce, yet life in the desert is overflowing with abundance.

Jan. 13: Arrive in the tourist town of Swakopmond

After long travels today and a brief stop in Walvis Bay to feel the squishy mud beneath our toes, we finally arrive in Swakopmund, our home for two nights. Located along the Skeleton Coast, the town reminds me almost of any place I would visit back home when I go on a summer vacation to the beach. It's very much a cape town that's geared towards the visitors who travel through it; Swakopmund is the opposite of what I envisioned a typical African town to be. Instead of huts that stretch on for miles, there is store after store, all advertising a piece of Africa for you to buy, made by a traditional [insert occupation here, i.e. wood-carver, painter, etc.]. And with about a 10:1 white to black ratio of inhabitants, it's devoid of the native people I had envisioned meeting. It may be close-minded, but I came to Africa with the vision of meeting black Africans, not Germans who had settled here more than a hundred years ago. Yet, just with the experience of visiting Swakopmund, that stereotype of mine has been broken.

There is something to say about the black Africans I did meet in Swakopmund. One type was the working class: people I saw working primarily in restaurants as waiters and servers. I spoke briefly with Charlotte, our waitress as the Village Cafe, who was 22 years old and had lived in Namibia her entire life. Her skin was a thin shade lighter than the deep black skin most Namibians had. The cafe at which she worked had a heavy German influence, which wasn't surprising to us because we learned that Germans had colonized parts of Southern Africa in the 1890s. From my Lonely Plant Guide I found out later that Swakopmund is often thought of as "more German than Germany" itself and that Germans settled there in 1892.

Charlotte had a pretty smile that was shy, yet open, and she wore her long hair in tiny braids, tied together in a loose pony-tail with a Village Cafe visor shading her eyes. Upon reflection, I wish I had gotten a picture with her now, but I was too bashful to ask at the time; I'm sure now, remembering her sweet disposition, that she would have readily agreed. She wore green earrings that looked a little nicer than I had seen most local women wearing. Her English was pretty good. She told me she has four younger sisters between the ages of 19 and 7 and that she left home after she finished school and now lives in a flat on her own. She had worked at the restaurant for quite awhile and she uses her earnings to pay for her housing. She goes to visit her family at least once a week; we laughed together about the shared troubles of 13 year old sisters. I wish we could have spoke longer, but she had customers to attend to and I felt guilty demanding any more of her time.

The other kind of black African I found was the poorer locals. As Claudia and I walked to dinner that night, a little boy with big, sad brown eyes walked towards us with his hands together, cupped at the palms, reaching out to us -- his intentions were clear. But instead of asking that ugly question -- the one that lowers a child before he should ever know the difference between rich and poverty -- he broke into a sweet African song. His high voice cut through me, piercing my heart as I wondered why life had to be this way for this child. Though most of the song was in Afrikkan, there were two phrases I did understand: "Do you have a dollar for me? Please, miss, I'm hungry." A couple days later, Burger took us to the shanty towns of Mundesa and the DRC, one of these the supposed home for this boy.

Jan. 14: Torturous Bike Rides Can't Compare to Fatal Shipwrecks

The day's beginning was harmless enough. After grabbing a little breakfast, Claudia, Melanie, and I set out on a walk through the city of Swakopmund, envisioning the many possible ways we could use our precious free day. We stopped at an internet cafe and opened overflowing email accounts, then went to the bank to exchange currency. From there, we found our way to the Cycle Centric, a bike store that had a German manager. While Claudia chatted with him in German, I looked around until my eyes fell onto my awaited fate, packaged in the least menacing form: a speed bike. Being a woman who isn't built for speed on a two-tire instrument of transportation, I was a little apprehensive about my ride in the imminent future. Once we rented our bikes and wheeled them out of the store, Claudia jumped on hers with the grace of a frequent biker and casually threw over her shoulder as she kicked off, "By the way, we're riding in traffic." I was still fumbling with my helmet when I regained my breath.

Eventually, I caught up with her though cars were speeding -- okay, they were driving normally -- through the streets and I didn't have a inkling of what was going on around me. From there, Claudia was my eyes; I had no sense of peripheral vision with my helmet fastened tightly, and I wasn't about to turn my head and risk losing sight of the road in front of me. She handled all the traffic signals -- I couldn't take my hands of the handlebars. If she went, I went without even glancing over my shoulder. Claudia Winkler held my existence in her hands that day.

By the time we arrived at the shipwreck, my shirt clung to my sweaty back, wisps of hair were plastered to my neck, and my bottom ached beyond belief: I was not a fan of bike riding. Yet seeing that ship lodged semi-permanently in the Skeleton Coast reminded me that a painful bike ride is nothing to a life lost at sea. I read later in my Lonely Planet Guide that the Skeleton Coast is known for its dangerous waters: foggy air and rocky shores still lead to wrecks in the region. The coast was called As Areias do Inferno -- "the Sands of Hell" -- by early Portuguese sailors because death was almost certain once the waves took a ship ashore.

Claudia and I stumbled along a rocky path out into the water, taking pictures of the rusting ship. Watching wave after crashing wave -- and getting splashed several times myself -- I could imagine that I would want to avoid these waters if traveling by ship. It made the less-than-pleasant bike ride to the shipwreck worth it -- not only because it put my pain into prospective, but also because I got a little whiff of a real adventure's stench.

Jan. 15: Seals and School Supplies

After lunch we stopped at Graiser Primary School -- an event that brightened some people's days, but dampened others. Here, I witnessed two kinds of exploitation. First, I recognized that our group came to the school hoping to achieve the high of a good feeling from our charity. We got out of our bus and went straight to the children, bending down to talk to them, look into their faces, and answer the waves we received when we drove up to the school. One of the guys got out the soccer ball and we formed a circle, beckoning to the children to join us. We kicked around the ball while Burger spoke to the teacher who didn't seem to be pleased by our prescence. In all honesty, we ignored her, failing to make any indication that we care about the school or her as an individual. We were merely Americans here to get our service done in the most delightful way possible for us. Then we would leave with little knowledge about the children we met or the lives they lead.

Yet the adults at the school exploited us as well. An older man there spoke to all the girls, looking at them in an uncomfortable way. He wasn't wearing a shirt, his stomach poked out over his shorts, his short hair was greying. He wore a big smile and said to me, "I think you are pretty." I've felt uncomfortable both times I've heard this expression from American boys. In this situation, uncomfortable didn't come close to how I felt as I gave him a nervous smile and squirmed as he put his arm through him, taking my hand. "Do you have a boyfriend?" he asked. I didn't know which would be the better choice: to lie and say yes or to encourage him with the truth. Unsure, I shook my head; he laughed and pulled me closer. I untangled myself, mumbled "sorry," and walked over to Claudia immediately, wondering what a white American girl symbolized in his mind -- sex?

A grandmother in the community saw a chance at exploitation as well and seized it. Gathering up a few young children -- including a tiny girl named Melissa -- she encouraged them to sing and dance for us, Christian songs. Believing this performance was in good fun, a group of our girls performed for them as well, singing "Row, row, row your boat." Yet when we got on the bus to leave, the grandmother was furious and demanded alcohol in exchange for this "performance" of hers. We were just a resource for her, an endless supply of funds that she could obtain if she only just pleased us. I felt disgusted with the whole situation, as if our gift of school supplies was now tainted.

Jan. 16: Ode to the Springbok

Oh, the noble springbok. On our first day's drive, we scrambled for cameras upon seeing you at a distance, wanting to capture that dark brown stripe along your side in film for all of time. You were so precious to us then -- one of our first exotic animals on the list. We'd halt the bus when we got a sign of this antelope's horns -- both heavily ridged for males and females. Yet we soon began to recognize your abundance: plentiful among open plains in Namibia and Botswana, you became a common sight. Soon we moved onto bigger and better things; in search of lions and elephants, we whizzed past the poor springbok who fed quietly in the grass. Yet, even in Etosha where animals are plentiful, we regained a sense of admiration for you once again. Seeing new-born springbok, only a day or two old, joining the herd, we were amazed. Traveling in small herds, we sometimes saw you "pronking" -- jumping with an arched back and stiff legs. We were fools, noble springbok, for ever doubting your importance in our minds.