Camping Through the Land of Contrast

Cover Photo: First African Sunset

2008-01-29T16:34:00.001-08:00

Jan. 11: The Desert Mindset

2008-01-28T07:28:00.000-08:00

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

2008-01-28T07:26:00.000-08:00

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

2008-01-28T07:24:00.000-08:00

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

2008-01-28T04:54:00.000-08:00

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

2008-01-28T03:29:00.000-08:00

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

2008-01-28T03:25:00.000-08:00

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.

Jan. 17: Lions, Zebras, and Giraffes... Oh my!

2008-01-28T00:17:00.000-08:00

Today was a game-drive day. We drove through Etosha with a steady purpose in our minds: to see every kind of animal we could. Just to name a few, we saw lions, blue wilderbeest, cape fox, kudu, ground squirrel, white-faced scops owl, yellow-billed horn bill, black rhino steenbok, oryx, kori bustard, masked weaver, and black-faced impala. Of all these animals, there were two that particularly appealed to me -- the Plains zebra and the giraffe.

As pictured above, we saw the Chapman's Race of plains zebra. Though they can varify in their coloration and pattern, most plains zebra have the tradition black and white zebras with a shadow stripe. Usually found in grassy plains, these zebra exist in a kind of family unit of 4-6 zebra with the stallion, mare(s) and the foals; bachelor stallions often run alone. Their foals are usually born in the summer time.

As the tallest animal in the world, giraffes usually range from 3.7-5.2 meters tall, depending upon if they're male or female. Their named after their stiff walk, and rarely eat grass -- they usually browse, feeding for about 15-20 hours a day, and have access to leaves and twigs that other animals can't reach. Putting the twig into their mouth with their lips and tongue, they shred the leaves off to eat. New born calves can be excluded from the herd for up to 3 weeks even though they can usually stand and walk within an hour of birth.

*Information on the springbok, plains zebra, and giraffe was found in the Field Guide to Mammals of Southern Africa.

Jan. 18: A Short Stop in Rundu

2008-01-28T00:16:00.001-08:00

Car troubles strike again, blowing out a tire on our bus, which meant we had to wait around in Rundu while Burger when to a car shop to get it fixed up. We're dropped off at the bank to exchange a little money into pula because we'll be crossing the border into Botswana tomorrow. Stepping inside the bank, I'm astonished to see three long lines that extend almost to the door. It's a Friday and many people wait patiently to have their checks cashed so their weekend can officially begin. The bank is suppose to close at 3:30, which is reasonable considering the lines probably won't be gone until 5:00. About 9 of us wait in the back of one line, wondering how long we'll be waiting. We're all a little on edge -- skipping lunch because of the tire escapade has left us irritable.

We hadn't been standing there long when a security man comes over to us and tells us to come into a separate office with who we supposed to be the bank manager. The manager speaks to us, asking us what kind of transaction we're looking to place; our attire and attitude screams foreign tourists, so he had to have an idea that we were there to exchange money. But we find out that pula is not available in this bank -- which makes sense because we're still in Namibia -- so we're forced to exchange our money into rand. I agree to exchange Lash's money because he doesn't have his passport; I can't exchange money anyways because I have a credit card.

The manager leaves and we wait for awhile in the office, unsure of how he's planning on doing the transaction. Before long we're called out of the office and back to the lines; the manager has opened a separate window that we believe to be special to foreign exchanges. Yet, once our exchanges take place, we see that we've actually been pulled to the front of the line. With a reddening face, I look around to see quite a few people staring, one woman in particular giving a nasty look. I expected it, deserved it even -- I was disgusted by our sudden jump of the line. All I could think, as I watched the teller count out the money, is that we were only confirming their stereotypes of us as Americans -- the very stereotypes that I hoped we would break.

Jan. 19: Lose Yourself in the Lagoon

2008-01-28T00:15:00.000-08:00

The water is so still, it looks as though you could walk across it. Like a mirror, it reflects every image faithfully -- the sky's reflection looks like a picture pasted to a flat surface, eerily unreal. You could fold the sky on top of the water and ever cloud would fall into its match, pressed together perfectly. Green outlines the lagoon -- reeds and papyrus are plentiful, some of their roots originating from underneath the water's surface. Yet the scene seems to indicate a false sense of security. Though diving into the water seems like it would be the most natural act with the water beckoning to you in such a way, to enter would be fatal. Underneath the silky surface, crocodiles and hippos lurke -- a sure sign of danger. Knowing their existance only adds to the lagoon's mystery: how can it hold the silent beauty of a painting, yet be full of extremely unusual life? Welcome to the Okavango Delta.

Jan. 20: Drenched on the Delta with My Dedicated Team

2008-01-28T00:14:00.000-08:00

As I slipped into the motorboat tied to the bank of the Okavango Delta, my mind held few predictions about what the day would bring. It may have been because I was concentrating with raw intensity on the simple task of keeping my feet below me, but it could also be due to my minimal knowledge of the delta. I knew crocidile and hippo sitings were expected, yet I couldn't image what the actual ride would entail. In my four hour trip across the delta, I discovered more than the habitat of these exotic animals; I found out something about the people on every side of me in the boat.

The water that stretched in front of the boat was still, reminding me of morning trips across the bridge in Gainesville with my father. As we crossed Lake Lanier before the sun came up, he would smile and say, "Look, Sarah. The lake looks like a sheet of glass." Ten years later, I watched as our boat sliced through the water, shattering the placid stillness like a windowpane. It was a relaxing ride until the rain began to fall. We scrambled for trashbags in an attempt to salvage our beloved belongings.

The weather had no mercy; rain fell harder as we continued through canals of the delta. Drops that seemed the size of quarters fell from the sky like bullets designed to pierce, but not penetrate the skin. On the water, each drop bounced off the surface of the water like Mexican jumping beans, tiny circles forming for as far as I could see, which -- blinded by rain -- wasn't far. Despite the clouds rolling above us and the wind cutting through our clothes, the scenary was still enjoyable -- reeds, controlled by the wind, bent foward in a bow, then flew back with the swish of an orchestra conductor's baton. The papyrus shook as our boats flew by and occasionally whipped our faces.

But as the storm continued and the boat rode on, misery ensued. Drenched and shivering, the view could only do so much to abate negativity. Yet there was one aspect of the ride that, upon reflection, made the journey meaningful: the 8 people who pulled me through it.

Comfort could only be found through one another. To heed off some of the cold, Sam and I leaned towards each other and pressed our arms together. At another point -- during a stop that I prayed was close to the island, but was not -- someone behind me put their hand on my shoulder. Later on, I looked back to see Ashley curled up with Dr. Robinson's arms around her. The most drastic case occurred towards the end of the ride when Zach pulled back Kelsey's sunglasses to eyes that would not open. Claudia and Dr. Davis huddled around her, creating warmth. Once we were off the boat, Weatherly helped her into warm clothes. During that boat ride, human contact in its simplest form was needed. Our group delivered it.

While we were supposed to learn about the delta on our trip through its waters, I learned a little more about us. We have the ability to assess others' needs and meet them -- without this ability, the trip would have been merely a succession of experiences with no real gain.

Jan. 21: A Trip on the Mokoro

2008-01-28T00:13:00.000-08:00

Stepping into the mokoro, I tried to steady myself, holding my arms out for balance -- I wasn't as worried about falling as I was about tipping the boat. At least if I fell this time, it would be understandable: the fiberglass canoe seemed so easy to tip that I doubted we would stay afloat for very long. However, once I sat inside the boat and our poler pushed off with his ngashi (pole made from mogonono tree), I was pleasantly surprised at how steady the canoe stayed as it floated through masses of bright green lilypads. I sat back and soaked up the peaceful atmosphere of the delta -- an enjoyable calm that lasted only so long as Weatherly didn't have control of the canoe.

Asking our poler if she could give it a try, they switched spots and I gripped the sides of the canoe a little tighter. Our canoe wobbled as Weatherly tested the waters, trying to feel out how she should push the pole. The poler told her to keep the pole just on the right side and control it by either putting the pole in front or behind her. Weatherly eventually caught on and I seeped back into that puddle of peace, playing with the necklace the poler made me out of a lily flower. All the girls had them -- we were "queens of the Delta" -- and some learned how to make one themselves.

We stopped at an island and got out of the canoes because Burger wanted to go back and get the rest of the group. But, much to his dismay, the rain was coming and we had to pile a group of 9 people into two canoes. In my canoe was our poler, Weatherly, Melanie, Claudia, and I -- the canoe sunk deep into the water, only a couple inches away from overflow. It began to rain lightly and with every unsteady movement, water flooded into our tiny canoe. Once we arrived back at the motorboats, we hurried to get out of the meroko. Though the ride was shakey at times, it was enlightening to travel the traditional way down the Delta.

Jan. 22: From New Friends to Bushmen

2008-01-28T00:12:00.000-08:00

The trip is beginning to come to a close; this will be our last night in tents, sleeping on damp mats and sandy sleeping bags. While this may not sound like the most appealing sleepy conditions, I've actually enjoyed it. Being tent mates with Ashley has been one of the best parts of this trip -- she's such a kind, caring person and I hope that some of her genuine attitude has rubbed off on me. More than anything, I think she was one of the few people on this trip that was interested in learning things not just to know them, but to do something about the things she learns.

I've actually been very fortunate to have spent this tremendous trip with the group that I did. More than lion attacks and malaria pills, I was worried about how I'd fit in on this trip -- I knew I'd either come out of it with a bundle of new friends or about the same as I entered it. I'm pleased to say the result is the former. And I didn't just make those "acquaintance" type of friends. Besides Ashley, I feel like I've found a close connection with both Claudia and Sam; all three girls took me under their wing without any questions. One of the marvels of interim is that some kind of experience is shared by a group of people. I'm glad to have this interim, this experience with these people.

I have to admit the walk with the San people (Bushmen) saddened me. As I watched them bent over, with their cape-like leather clothes draped over their backs, digging for roots, I knew that this had only become a function of tourism -- a picture painted for us so that we could be satisfied in knowing that we saw an ancient tradition of society. All we had to do was watch. At one point a cigarette was light up; I watched in amazement as modern society met traditional practices. Later, the main San man shot an arrow into a sea of brush, after an invisible antelope. He ran after it and laughed at us when we watched him eagerly. This walk was only a shadow of how the tradition San people had been -- it was all the motions with no feeling behind it.

Jan. 23: Back to Windhoek

2008-01-28T00:11:00.000-08:00

As I gaze out the bus window on our way back to Windhoek, I try to drink in all the beauty of Namibia in a single gulp; there are too many feelings evoked by just the site of these grey-purple mountains. You become attached to it without even realizing your fixation. Once you're able to stare at ideal scenes of nature -- crisp, clear blue sky that holds touchable clouds, the kind of which you're sure you can reach up and grab a fistful, combined with every landscape from rolling plains to miles of desert sand -- you wonder if your eyes can readjust to the ordinary terrain of home.

But I've found that's a bit how Africa is, too. Although our professors warned us in pre-departure sessions to refrain from talking about the continent of Africa as a whole, I refuse to believe there isn't some universal magic about this huge chunk of the earth and the people that occupy it. It pulls you in and before you've even thought to resist it, you're in love. I can't deny that in my short time on the continent, I've been filled with inspiration. Sometimes at home I can sit and reflect on my day and there will be nothing to think about, much more write about. Here it pours out of me, just like the tears falling down my face as I try to capture this feeling in words. I came to Africa with the belief that this would be my only chance in life to see this part of the world; I leave Africa with the dissoluble conviction that a return is essential, no matter what inconveniences try to prevent it. I'll be back here someday -- it's only a matter of when.

Besides the vague thought that I could come and teach here someday, I have no idea how I can give back to Africa in the way that it's given to me. The people here are open: they smile without searching for a reason, they touch each other frequently through clasped hands or an arm around one another. Though I can't help but feel like I've imposed on them -- their kindness, their culture, their homes -- while I've been here, my hope is that I can come back and find a way to be a part of it instead of taking fistfuls of it like a drowning man gasps for air.

At the very least, my travels through Namibia and Botswana are memories that won't be forgotten, and I hope they will continue to affect me. All I have to do is glance at a picture or read a few sentences of my journal, and I know I'll be taken back there. This is Africa.

Final Photo: Cape Cross

2008-01-28T00:10:00.000-08:00