Thursday, April 22, 2004
I apologize for being out of the loop. It’s been a few weeks of readjusting to life in Cape Town, catching up with the books and wearing hoods under drizzly skies. There was last Saturday’s rafting trip down the Breede River and last Wednesday’s elections, marking ten years of democracy. The ANC (African National Congress) won 69% of the vote and Thabo Mbeki will serve another term as president. To prevent fraud, voters’ thumbnails were stained with deep purple ink. As the voter turnout was above 70%, there were lots of queues in front of town halls and lots of spotted thumbs.
On to Holiday in Namibia . . .expanse of desert, massive sand dunes in shades of iridescent terra cotta, soft as skin, sun exits and entrances vivid as ripe papaya. With a population of about 1.8 million, Namibia has two people per square kilometer. In 1989, it was the last African country to gain independence, having been occupied by Germany and Apartheid South Africa.
Kelly, Rachel, Krista, Sarah, Jared, Steve, Mitchell and I landed in Windhoek, picked up the keys to a Toyota and a Nissan, stocked up on rice and beans and flavored potato chips and headed north to Etosha National Park. As we pulled up to the gate, we saw a piece of rainbow arching into a yawning sky. A few kilometers down, we hit the breaks and the off-button on the stereo so a dozen zebras could cross the gravel road. We saw herds and herds of antelope and springbok heading somewhere, giraffes trotting across fields, water buffalo heavy on their hooves (I think buffalo have hooves). We spent two nights in the Etosha campsites of Namutoni and Okaukuejo, building fires, pitching tents and playing rummy. We braved a thunderstorm and our subsequently soaked sleeping bags. We waited under a thatched roof with a view of a waterhole, keeping our eyes peeled for elephants and lions until our eyelids got too heavy. We heard a lion or two and plenty of safari goers in khaki pajamas snoring through tent walls.
Next stop was the coastal city of Swakopmund. After a day of scenic cruising past boulders and vast fields, we arrived at the “Alternative Space,” a bed and breakfast deemed an “experience”, decked in erotic artwork and scrap metal. Sybil and Frenus, German émigrés and avid art collectors, live on the premises with their two boys. They designed the outdoor showers amidst vines and hibiscus flowers, and the igloo-shaped rooms overlooking the dunes. They gave us the number for Raymond, a sandboarding instructor who once starred in a Seal music video. He took us out to the dunes for a day of boarding/sledding on flannel-soft sand. The Space also boasted a fully equipped kitchen for guests, which we filled with ingredients for haroset, and soup greens as we prepped for a Passover Seder. Four of us were regular seder-goers and the other four were first timers. A yam on the seder plate was also a new addition, playing the role of the shank-bone/beet as they were out of stock at the Swakop Pick & Pay. We jabbered into the night about the Israeli Palestinian conflict and Iraq and how thankful we were to be in Namibia and South Africa and college and with each other. There was singing and camera flashes and a few tears.
More playing on massive dunes in Sossusvlei and Sesriem. We bumped into some other U.C.T. kids at our campsite and offered them hospitality in our tents as they had popped three tires that day and had to their names a mini tent that slept one, a can of green beans and a guitar. We ascended the slip-slope of Dune 45 for sunrise. Dune 45, not unlike Studio 54, okay not at all like Studio 54 is. . . a HUGE dune. “It’s gonna be hard to convince people that sand dunes can be so cool,” Jared remarked.
Final tourist destination was Ai-Ais hot springs, adjacent to Fish River Canyon, the second largest canyon in the world, after the Grand Canyon. It was still non-hiking season due to flooding, but the view into the winding arteries of the canyon at none other than sunset was spectacular. We camped at Ai-Ais for three nights, at the foot of charcoal mountains teeming with baboons and lined by a bronzed river. We were adopted by an Afrikaaner family on their annual vacation. They offered us plenty of wine and beer and toasties and commentary on American politics and hip hop.
Camping culture is intense. People bring collapsible living rooms and canvas armoires of silverware and four-bedroom tents. Some people pitch their tents on the roofs of S.U.V.S. and pull tables and chairs out of trailers. Many people snore. Most of the campsites we visited had pools and fire-pits, general stores and petrol stations, and some even had restaurants. Most of the vacationers were white and the employees, black. Apartheid’s legacy sits sturdy.
I was surprised by the smoothness of our trip. Well, the roads were bumpy, and we nearly lost a bumper on one of our cars. But to that I say, thank heavens for duct tape! I think I laughed for ten days straight. Our random group of eight had an incredible vibe. We spent our days playing musical car seats and jumping out of the car on empty straits of highway to frolic in the sand and throw around Gilbert, our beloved rugby ball. It was a revitalizing trip, shampooless as it was, and a transformative Passover spent in the desert.
On to Holiday in Namibia . . .expanse of desert, massive sand dunes in shades of iridescent terra cotta, soft as skin, sun exits and entrances vivid as ripe papaya. With a population of about 1.8 million, Namibia has two people per square kilometer. In 1989, it was the last African country to gain independence, having been occupied by Germany and Apartheid South Africa.
Kelly, Rachel, Krista, Sarah, Jared, Steve, Mitchell and I landed in Windhoek, picked up the keys to a Toyota and a Nissan, stocked up on rice and beans and flavored potato chips and headed north to Etosha National Park. As we pulled up to the gate, we saw a piece of rainbow arching into a yawning sky. A few kilometers down, we hit the breaks and the off-button on the stereo so a dozen zebras could cross the gravel road. We saw herds and herds of antelope and springbok heading somewhere, giraffes trotting across fields, water buffalo heavy on their hooves (I think buffalo have hooves). We spent two nights in the Etosha campsites of Namutoni and Okaukuejo, building fires, pitching tents and playing rummy. We braved a thunderstorm and our subsequently soaked sleeping bags. We waited under a thatched roof with a view of a waterhole, keeping our eyes peeled for elephants and lions until our eyelids got too heavy. We heard a lion or two and plenty of safari goers in khaki pajamas snoring through tent walls.
Next stop was the coastal city of Swakopmund. After a day of scenic cruising past boulders and vast fields, we arrived at the “Alternative Space,” a bed and breakfast deemed an “experience”, decked in erotic artwork and scrap metal. Sybil and Frenus, German émigrés and avid art collectors, live on the premises with their two boys. They designed the outdoor showers amidst vines and hibiscus flowers, and the igloo-shaped rooms overlooking the dunes. They gave us the number for Raymond, a sandboarding instructor who once starred in a Seal music video. He took us out to the dunes for a day of boarding/sledding on flannel-soft sand. The Space also boasted a fully equipped kitchen for guests, which we filled with ingredients for haroset, and soup greens as we prepped for a Passover Seder. Four of us were regular seder-goers and the other four were first timers. A yam on the seder plate was also a new addition, playing the role of the shank-bone/beet as they were out of stock at the Swakop Pick & Pay. We jabbered into the night about the Israeli Palestinian conflict and Iraq and how thankful we were to be in Namibia and South Africa and college and with each other. There was singing and camera flashes and a few tears.
More playing on massive dunes in Sossusvlei and Sesriem. We bumped into some other U.C.T. kids at our campsite and offered them hospitality in our tents as they had popped three tires that day and had to their names a mini tent that slept one, a can of green beans and a guitar. We ascended the slip-slope of Dune 45 for sunrise. Dune 45, not unlike Studio 54, okay not at all like Studio 54 is. . . a HUGE dune. “It’s gonna be hard to convince people that sand dunes can be so cool,” Jared remarked.
Final tourist destination was Ai-Ais hot springs, adjacent to Fish River Canyon, the second largest canyon in the world, after the Grand Canyon. It was still non-hiking season due to flooding, but the view into the winding arteries of the canyon at none other than sunset was spectacular. We camped at Ai-Ais for three nights, at the foot of charcoal mountains teeming with baboons and lined by a bronzed river. We were adopted by an Afrikaaner family on their annual vacation. They offered us plenty of wine and beer and toasties and commentary on American politics and hip hop.
Camping culture is intense. People bring collapsible living rooms and canvas armoires of silverware and four-bedroom tents. Some people pitch their tents on the roofs of S.U.V.S. and pull tables and chairs out of trailers. Many people snore. Most of the campsites we visited had pools and fire-pits, general stores and petrol stations, and some even had restaurants. Most of the vacationers were white and the employees, black. Apartheid’s legacy sits sturdy.
I was surprised by the smoothness of our trip. Well, the roads were bumpy, and we nearly lost a bumper on one of our cars. But to that I say, thank heavens for duct tape! I think I laughed for ten days straight. Our random group of eight had an incredible vibe. We spent our days playing musical car seats and jumping out of the car on empty straits of highway to frolic in the sand and throw around Gilbert, our beloved rugby ball. It was a revitalizing trip, shampooless as it was, and a transformative Passover spent in the desert.
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