L. is a Peace Corps volunteer teacher who's been living in a mid-sized village in my region since about four months after I got here. We didn't meet until about six months after that, when I took to her immediately. She's sharp and sweet and hyper-competitive (that last she admits with rueful-yet-cheerful self-awareness when claiming the role of timekeeper or referee for games), and her commitment to her PC service and the people and community she serves glows in her aura. So when she invited a bunch of volunteers to visit her for a belated Fourth of July celebration, I was delighted to accept. It's fun to see new places -- volunteers have a really broad range of experiences, from sophisticated city living to mud huts strewn with cobras -- and L's open-hearted hospitality would be sure to be excellent.
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| We head toward the river. |
I had just gotten a site-mate -- another PC volunteer living in my town -- and he managed to score us a sweet ride to Karibib, the first leg of our journey, free and easy. We met up with our hostess and fellow guests there to shop the big grocery store for braai supplies. Since this was to be a July 4th thing, I guess they were bbq supplies, but it's the same thing in the end!
Karibib is a nice change from my desert town; semi-arid savannah with grass and trees. And it got better as we headed out toward Otjimbingwe (Oat-jim-bing-gway), jammed into a bakkie (pick-up truck) that was as full as anyone this side of Clown College could make it. ("This is a very nice bakkie," L. said admiringly, gazing at relatively-new tires with a pleased smile.) The village is situated on the Swakop River, which is dry on its surface almost all the time, but has water flowing underground. So we had lots of trees, and it was actually warmer at night than the chilly desert 100km away. Also, hills. Gently undulating all around us. Gorgeous.
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| So peaceful. So pretty. |
Sadly, we passed the site of a bakkie accident earlier that day in which at least one person had died. The truck had gone off the gravel (dirt) road and flipped, and the riders in its uncovered back were thrown out, full force and over distance. This is why Peace Corps forbids its volunteers from riding in open bakkies. We have to find one with a cover.
L's fuzzy puppy, Strawberry, greeted us at her house. Strawberry probably didn't get any more love and attention with all of us around than she gets with just L., who lavishes her with affection, but she got a lot of love and attention (except from J.; short, sad story), and earned every scrap. A dog's a delight, and L. has electricity and a stove and fridge and everything. Unfortunately, the village had recently switched from borehole water to metered pipeline water, and L. hadn't gotten used to checking her meter and buying more water credits before she ran out. So she kind of didn't have any running water all weekend, with eight guests and an indoor flush toilet. Fortunately, she was able to fill jerry cans at a neighbor's tap, and we made do with those quite nicely.
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| L. with learners at her school. |
L. made us all burritos on Friday night, and we talked and relaxed happily, then split up to crowd each other in the two available beds and various floor pads. On Saturday C. made French toast, which I hadn't eaten in over a year I believe, and then we toured the village. We saw L's school complex, and a few excellent shops where we all bought chilled drinking water, and walked down to the river to throw stones at the palm trees, trying to shake loose the nuts. They have almost no nutritional or gustatory value, but it was fun to try one. You peel the outer shell, scrape your teeth along the inner shell, and swallow a gram or two of woody, nearly tasteless nut substance. Hmm. Interesting.
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| Walking the river, or river bed. It did have some water in it this year, toward the end of the rainy season a few months before our visit. |
About a million children accompanied us on the walk, poking into the river's borehole and waggling hands and feet in the 'dam', which is a storage container for water to sustain local cattle and small stock. L. kept warning them not to go too far, as few kids here know how to swim. We also visited the Powder Tower, where the Herero people stored arms a hundred or so years ago, when Otjimbingwe was their capital.
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| The Powder Tower, with vols and Strawberry. |
That night we braai'd or barbecued, and I got to make the dough for the roosterbrood, using whole wheat flour thank goodness at last and garlic salt instead of regular since that's what L. had and it would taste better anyway. S. passed around temporary tattoos of firecrackers and stars-and-stripes that her mother had brought on a visit two months previously, and I slapped one on my neck and one on my wrist. I was very festive. After dinner, several of L's teacher friends, who have moved to the village from all over, came over to sit on the floor and play Thirteen with us.
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| L. doing a three-second boogie as part of the Thirteen game. |
In the morning we reluctantly ransacked L's sweet little house for our meandering possessions, crammed into another bakkie headed town-wards ("This looks like a very nice bakkie."), and gazed in wonder (I did, anyway) as the hills lifted and sank us through trees and shade and all that good stuff. Then we had a fun time getting home from Karibib! It was a truly lovely break from the routine, and I am so glad L. proposed the outing, and made it all happen.
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