It Takes a Village (...To Inflate a Soccer Ball)

My Aunt Connie recently sent a package with some of the most delicious Christmas cookies I’ve ever tasted and a deflated soccer ball I foolishly assumed we’d have no problem bringing back to life.

I knew our next-door neighbor, a teacher at Jessica’s school, made a habit of employing a bicycle pump and a handful of learners to fill the tires of his beat up four-door most Saturday mornings. Him being a friendly guy, and this being Africa, I knew he’d be more than happy to share.

So yesterday afternoon when Jessica stopped by to borrow a CD of Namibian tunes to take home to America, she asked if I might be able to use the bike pump for a couple of minutes to inflate my ball. I planned to take it to the orphanage this week, and knew a flat ball was a bit like a remote control car with no batteries—not a lot of fun.

I stood in the doorway waiting for his reply and heard, “They’ll be coming now!” from his window.

I figured my soccer ball would go from flat to fun in no time. But nothing’s ever so simple this side of the Atlantic.

It seems I hadn’t paid close enough attention on those weekend mornings when young boys lined up to take turns pumping the pogo stick-like tube of our neighbor’s bike pump, because when eight little faces showed up at my door, tool in hand, I saw one major problem.

There was no pin in their pump.

“It’s no problem,” said our neighbor, who was standing bare-chested and in boxers. “He’ll fix it for you now,” he added, gesturing towards one of the boys. Immediately his sister's son took off for the trash pile, and a couple of minutes later he returned, metal wire in hand, with a smile on his face.

The older boy grabbed the wire, doubled it over, and instructed another one of the children to find the barrel of a pen. A few minutes later the young one returned bearing a brand new pen, which the others worked with their teeth to dismantle. The oldest one looked up with a smile and inserted the barrel of the pen into the tube of the pump, clamped it on, shoved the metal into the barrel and inserted the metal into the ball’s hole.

It was so complicated it had to work.

But it didn’t.

One boy furiously worked the pump while the other secured the contraption in the ball with his hands. But still, air escaped on all sides.

“Celo tape!” one yelled. And moments later, another girl—one I hadn’t seen previously—appeared with tape in her hand. And so, as one child held the pen, another wrapped the tape. But when the pushing and pumping started again, air, sadly, continued to escape.

“It’s okay,” said our neighbor. “They will come now. Our power is too weak. They will take it to town.”

And out of nowhere, two men appeared—with a car, no less—grabbed the ball, and headed to town. “They will bring it for you,” he said.

About an hour later, the two men returned and our neighbor’s son, a small boy who speaks no English but has a huge smile, marched into our flat, airless ball in hand. It seemed even the petrol station pump was without a pin.

Sure the ball was deflated (still), but our neighbors weren’t defeated. They searched for other means of filling the ball, and even found a friend with a pump just up the road. (Sadly, his was also without a pin.) But after several hours and a few more failed attempts, we realized it probably wasn’t going to happen. At least not today.

But knowing our neighbors, and knowing this place, I’m sure we’ll still find a way.

Happy Thanksgiving! (Nam-Style)

Last year’s Thanksgiving was a pretty lame affair. Jessica and I had just arrived in Khorixas for the first time and were still reeling from what I can only assume was pure culture shock. We headed to a rest camp outside of town and feasted on chicken and chips. And as we did so, we made every effort to pretend we were somewhere else.

But this year I think we go it right. Mostly because this time, Thanksgiving actually felt like Thanksgiving—complete with mashed potatoes, gravy—and yes, even specially ordered turkeys! So maybe we weren’t with our families back home, but Jessica and I hiked up to Rundu (part of the way in the back of a cabbage truck in the pouring rain…) and spent the holiday with our “family” and friends here in Namibia.

Four generations of Peace Corps volunteers (Nam 25, 26, 27 and 28) spent most of Saturday cooking. Nam 27 was in charge of pumpkin pies, apples pies and vegetable side dishes (for 40!), Nam 26 had mashed potatoes (17 kilos!) and carrot cake, and Patrick, a member of Nam 12 who so graciously hosts Thanksgiving dinner at his rest camp each year, took charge of the turkeys (5!). Being newbies, Nam 28 just got to sit back and watch.

This was my first time cooking Thanksgiving dinner, and I think it’s safe to say I learned a few things: You can never have enough gravy (or enough mashed potatoes). It’s never too early to start cooking (which is good, because most of us wake up at 5 a.m.). It is possible to make cheesecake without cream cheese, shopping the day-of ain’t no big thang, and sometimes "fine china" is just paper plates.

Perhaps most importantly, I learned that when you’re PCVs, it doesn’t matter whether the food comes out hot, or whether it comes out at the same time. Instead, it just matters that we’re there, our friends are there, and the turkey’s there, too.


Nam 26, 28 & 27


Not Sure What to Make of it...


Me & Rachel


YUM!

Reflections of a Recreational Reader: Part III

I've never understood a society of want. We don't have a society of want--not on a general level. We have a society of total surplus: unwanted goods. Unwanted people.
--Studs Turkle, Hard Times

Finding yourself comes right after discovering your insignificance.
--Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance

At the approach of danger there are always two voices that speak with equal force in the heart of man: one very reasonably tells the man to consider the nature of the danger and the means of avoiding it; the other even more reasonable says that it is too painful and harassing to think of danger, since it is not in a man's power to provide for everything and escape from the general march of events...In solitude a man generally yeilds to the first voice. In society, to the second.
--Leo Tolstoy, War and Peace

Any action that has self-glorification as its end point is bound to be a disaster.
--Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance

Happiness grows in direct proportion to acceptance and in inverse proportion to expectation.
--Michael J. Fox

It's better to live your own destiny imperfectly than to live an imitation of someone else's life with perfection
--Bhagavad Gita

Some people say, 'New York's a great place to visit but I wouldn't want to live there.' I say that about other places.
--Robert DiNiro

Whole foods and industrial foods are the only two food groups I'd consider including in any useful pyramid. We should simply avoid anything that has been processed to such an extent that it is more a product of industry than of nature.
--Michael Pollan, In Defense of Food

I have lived through much, and now I think I have found what is needed for happiness. A quiet secluded life in the country, with the possibility of being useful to people to whom it is easy to do good, and who are not accustomed to have it done to them; then work which one hopes may be of some use; then rest, nature, books, music, love for one's neighbor--such is my idea of happiness.
--Leo Tolstoy, Family Happiness

Risk is the cost of aggressive objectives.
--Andy Grove

Goodbye Girls Club

School's officially out for summer, which means last week we said goodbye to our first ever African Stars Girls Club. It's been a pretty amazing experience watching these 13 and 14 year olds change and grow over the last year. So many of them have come into their own, developing stronger voices, gaining independence and finding new confidence.

We taught them about teamwork and self-esteem, oral care and public speaking, heart and reproductive health, self-esteem and future planning. And while the send-off party was a success--complete with stickers and songs, certificates and scented soaps (a rare combination, I realize)--I was still a little sad to see them go.

Sure, some of the Grade 6 leaners will be back next year, when our African Stars meet again. But a few of my favorites (like little Rosa, who over the past year has transformed from a tough and tumble bully to a kindhearted but no nonsense, smart and talented girl) are heading elsewhere for schooling.

It makes room for new girls to become African Stars, but it still leaves a bit of a hole where the original ones used to be.


Olivia Making Red Ribbons for World AIDS Day


Joancey Hard at Work


African Star Girls!


(Rosa's in the Red)

Confirmation: Fancy

A couple of weeks ago--after a long, hot and heinous hike--I came home to find four of our learners all dolled up in their Sunday Best. After weeks of classes at the local Catholic Church (some of which conflicted with Girls Club...ahem) these young ladies were confirmed.



Best of all? They were nice enough to stop by to show off their fancy dresses!

Here's to Hope: The Election Edition

When America elects its first black president, you kind of want to be there.

But if you can’t be in America for such an historic event, Africa is probably the next best place.

Now I realize polls closed a couple of weeks ago, but I’ve been slow on the take to post what the waiting game was like for those of us here in Namibia. Since friends and family keep asking, and since it was my first absentee election, I thought I’d share a bit of the experience with all of you here, on my blog.

It goes without saying that following this election from a developing country proved a bit of a challenge. While a handful of friends in Khorixas have televisions, no regular (or reliable) access to Internet or newspapers meant missing a lot of the day-to-day happenings—and sadly, all of the debates. In America I would have been glued to nyt.com at work, and canvassing the streets on weekends. But here in Namibia I relied almost exclusively on weekly reports from my mom and dad, updates from friends via email and the occasional out-of-date Newsweek, compliments of Peace Corps. Oh, and of course, Namibians.

Whether it’s true for all American elections, or just for this one in particular, I can’t say. But most everyone here was following the coverage as closely as we were (or rather—wished we were). Colleagues dropped by my office to talk about who I planned to vote for and the possibility of an African president. (His Kenyan heritage allows even Namibians to claim him as one of their own.) They spoke with a sparkle of pride in their voices and I could see this election was bigger than just our country. The eyes of the world were watching, and I knew that come Wednesday morning, Peace Corps Volunteers everywhere would have to answer to them. Face to face.

Polls were just opening in America Tuesday as I was preparing for sleep here in Namibia. I was too nervous for bed—wondering just what kind of world I’d be waking up in. We were on the brink of change, and I was desperate to see our country actually cross the threshold. I tossed and turned. Restless. Impatient. Worried that instead of waking up in a new era Wednesday morning, I’d be waking up with the same country and the same problems.

It’s just that this time, I’d have friends and colleagues in Namibia to answer to, too.

Given our limited access to technology, we were pretty reliant on well-connected PCVs for updates. A handful of volunteers arranged to camp out in the living rooms of coworkers or friends so they could tune into international news in the early morning, when the first polls closed at home.

SMSes started pouring in around 5 a.m., but they didn’t wake me up. I’d never actually been able to fall asleep. “Electoral count: McCain 95, Obama 207 so far,” the fist one read. “Right now my state of Texas is neutral—can you imagine?” read another. Then, less than an hour later came, “They just projected Obama the winner. All the polls are closed. 297-139.” Finally came, “OBAMA PRESIDENT OF THE UNITED STATES!!!!”

I could stop holding my breath.

It seemed safe to say that change was finally upon us.

By 8 a.m. we were at my friend Clarence’s door, eager to catch a glimpse of the news on his TV. His entire family was already huddled around the television—cups of steaming tea in hand—watching America’s new First Family—its first black family—take the stage. A family that, in some ways, looked a lot like his. “Congratulations,” they said, getting up to give us hugs. “You must be so happy!”

And the truth was, we were. Because for the first time, in a long time, I felt good to be an American.

Happy Birthday Dad!

Hope you have a great day!

Love,
Jill

Just a Toothbrush: Eddie Bowe Primary, Take Two

Grade 5B


Grade 5C


Grade 6B


Grade 7B

Just a Toothbrush: Eddie Bowe Primary

Learners here in Khorixas are busy preparing for final exams and the end of the school year, so this week’s oral care workshops will likely be the last of 2008. (But don’t worry—plenty more will happen in the coming year!)

Since I started this project a few months ago, I’ve been surprised by how few children own toothbrushes, how unaware most are of proper brushing techniques and how almost none know even the definition of cavity (let alone how to prevent one).

You’d think by now nothing would shock me. But today, I was simply amazed. Amazed because when I asked where the dentist in Khorixas works, no one raised a hand.

Not because they didn’t know the place. But because they didn’t know the profession.

Before today it seems, most of these learners had never even heard of the dentist.


Edddie Bowe Grade 5A


Eddie Bowe Grade 6A


Eddie Bowe Grade 7A

Happy Namiversary!

We celebrated our one-year anniversary this past Sunday in typical PCV fashion: on the side of the road, in the blazing hot sun, trying to thumb a ride.

It wasn’t a celebration, but still, it seemed, a moment to remember.

I’d spent Halloween with other volunteers in a town far to the south. We wore makeshift costumes, “carved” tin can jack-o-lanterns and reminisced over home-cooked meals about where we all were this time last year. (For the record: landing in Windhoek and wondering just what the hell we’d gotten ourselves into.)

We agreed, there'd been days that felt like they'd never end, bouts of homesickness, times of sadness and without a doubt, periods of frustration. Still, we said, there were few things we’d change. In the last year, it seems, we’ve experienced--and maybe even accomplished--more than we ever imagined possible.

I learned to click, plucked a chicken and carried water on my head. I slept in a hut, survived 120-degree heat and spent two weeks in a foreign country without any kind of luggage. I bought two-years worth of supplies in less than two hours and found a new place to live in less than 24. I rode 14-deep in a 6-person vehicle and sat shotgun in a homemade donkey cart. I taught health classes and started a girls club. I showed a dozen learners as many games and looked on as they taught their entire school how to play. I started an AIDS Awareness Club and facilitated Windows of Hope. I completed seven dental workshops at two schools and one orphanage, and provided nearly 300 kids with toothbrushes and toothpaste in the process. I read more than 75 books (including War and Peace) and started learning to play the harmonica. I was elected co-chair for Camp GLOW and helped organize and run a workshop for more than 100 out-of-school youth. I created an information resource center at my hospital and showed learners how they could be teachers in their communities. I developed an informal reading program and got a community garden off the ground. I marched in a World AIDS Day event, started a weekend sports and crafts program at the orphanage, wrote two manuals and a facilitator guide and partnered with the Red Cross on more than a dozen outreach events.

I hitchhiked around Namibia and Botswana, crossed the Tropic of Capricorn and walked over an international border. I visited 10 of Namibia’s 13 regions, saw elephants in the Chobe and hiked Table Mountain. I saw hippos, warthogs, crocodiles, water buffalo, kudu, giraffe, monkeys, baboons, whales, seals, penguins and dolphins in the wild. I learned to pitch a tent (in the rain, no less), went sky diving in the desert and kayaked on the other side of the Atlantic. I turned down hundreds of proposals and learned—at least somehow—what it feels like to be treated as a second-class citizen. I broke four cell phones and one ipod. I met the governor of Kunene and listened to the president speak. I visited the birthplace of Shilo and the southern-most tip of the continent.

And I realized that a person can be hundreds of miles from all that she knows and still be in a place she happily calls home.

Not bad for just 365 days…

Tag! (I'm It...)

My friend Frances recently “tagged” me to list six of my strangest quirks here on my blog. In America, this would have been easy, because in America, it felt like I had a million of them. But here in Namibia, those quirks and ticks just don’t seem so strange. (In fact, they appear to be more like survival skills or coping mechanisms.) But after a bit of thought, and a few SMSes to PCV friends, I’ve come up with the following. (And feel free to add any I've forgotten...I'm sure there are many.)

I have no problem wearing the same thing over and over and over again. Need proof? I spent two weeks wearing one black dress when my luggage failed to arrive in Namibia on the same flight I did. I still sported that dress—rather well, I might add—long after my bag was delivered.

I hate magic, cauldrons, wizards and gnomes. Therefore, I haven’t seen any of the Lord of the Rings movies (or read any of the Harry Potter books, for that matter) and have absolutely zero desire to. My favorite genre is reality.

I think the only two ingredients required for a party are cheese and crackers. Close third? This game.

People often tell me that I look confused or like I don’t understand. Really, that’s just the face I make when I’m paying attention.

I love the Olympics more than any other sporting event for the same reason I love March Madness more than any other tournament: Bob Costas. Oh, and the touching tales of triumph over tragedy. I live for that kind of stuff.

When I'm listening to my ipod, my fingers dance. Seriously.

Katie and Deanna, now it’s your turn!

...

Think of the small as large
and the few as many.
Confront the difficult
while it is still easy;
accomplish the great task
by a series of small acts.

-Tao te Ching

Just a Toothbrush: Welwitschia Primary

Grade 5


Grade 6


Grade 7

Knock Knock: Part II

The last time I answered the door on a Saturday morning, I was greeted by an aggressive drunk man with half a skinned donkey slung over his shoulder who was interested in getting friendly. So, needless to say, I was expecting something outside of the ordinary when I heard the voices of two learners yelling, "Miss! Miss!" at our window this afternoon.

I walked into the kitchen where Kennedy and Elvis, two Grade 5s, peeped through the burglar bars above our kitchen counter. "Hello?" I said.

"Hello Miss! We just wanted to show this bird!"

"Bird?" I said. "What bird?"

And from below the window ledge, two tiny hands lifted a broken branch where a small brown and very wild bird perched silently. Still alive, but paralyzed by what I can only imagine was pure fear.

"Is it real?" I asked.

(Sure, I could practically see its heart beating through its little feathered chest. But never in my life have I known someone capable of catching a wild bird with bare hands...But then, never in my life have I lived in Africa.)

"Yeah," they said. "It was flying in the kitchen and we just caught it there."

"Oh," I said...Of course.

Just a Toothbrush: Sunrise Center

These days, most of my Saturday afternoons are spent at the Sunrise Center. The three-bedroom orphanage is home to 20 children who are always excited about a chance to play games, kick a ball, or complete an art project.

It turned out, they were no less eager to learn about oral care.

After coloring pictures about healthy teeth and listening to stories about visiting the dentist, the kids lined up for their own toothbrush and tube of toothpaste.




They waited patiently while I wrote their names in black Sharpie pen, smiled brightly, then rushed off to practice brushing—just like they’d learned.

Back in the Saddle

When I’m not busy with work, I’m usually busy waiting.

Waiting for transport to come.
Waiting for meetings to start.
Waiting for teachers to arrive.
Waiting for funding to come through.
Waiting for learners to listen.

It’s one of those things that—until now—I’ve never been very good at. I like things to happen. And I like it best when they happen now.

But these days, I’m getting a lot of practice with being patient. And I think it’s safe to say, I’m definitely getting better.

The week before last was painfully slow. (And yes, you guessed it—all about waiting.) I had projects to work on and clubs to work with, but too many factors beyond my control meant there wasn’t much work I could actually do.

I was eager to host more primary school dental workshops. But materials were running low. Without transport to collect more toothbrushes and toothpaste, there was nothing to distribute.

My office space was cleaned and the shelves emptied as phase one of the transformation from workspace to hospital resource room. And while I was ready to file, label and organize, the materials I’d collected had yet to be delivered to Khorixas.

I’d organized activities for the Awareness Club at the secondary school, but Grade 10 exams meant the kids were too busy studying and preparing to attend much after-school anything. And Girls Club was supposed to be a lesson on physical conditioning and a healthy heart, but a last-minute awards ceremony was scheduled for the same time.

The beds of our community garden have been ready for weeks, but it was disappointing to learn that without funding, there’d be no food to feed the kids while they worked. So for now, not much more can be done.

In a week like this one it’s easy to feel frustrated and hard to feel productive. So while it seemed like my work life was on hold, I decided to focus on my own life instead. I picked up War and Peace, and plowed through half of the dense Russian text. And I took up a morning running program that gets me out in the streets well before the sun comes up.

It was my only way of feeling accomplished at a time when it seemed nearly impossible to be productive.

Luckily that’s changed.

This week the dental supplies were purchased and workshops have started once again. My office is now officially the hospital resource room. The learners in Girls Club know about healthy hearts and cardio kickboxing. And while the garden may still be on hold (since funding is always slow to surface), the OVCs and I are keeping busy on Saturday afternoons playing games, learning English and drawing pictures to decorate their walls. They’re having fun and just being kids.

And me? Well, I’ve got 650 pages left in War and Peace and I’m still heading out on those early-morning runs. But mostly I’m just feeling a whole lot more productive. And ultimately, a whole lot happier, too.

525,600 Minutes...

It’s been 365 days since I left New York City.

A year ago I was sitting on a stoop in Brooklyn with my closest friends, waiting with one massive duffle for a town car to whisk me away.

To JFK.
To Upstate.
Eventually, to Namibia.

I’d quit my job. I’d moved out. I’d spent two weeks couch surfing (an urban rite of passage) and filled my social calendar with more dinners and drinks that I thought humanly possible.

I’d even bought cargo pants.

I smiled through the tears when we hugged goodbye, mostly because I knew exactly what I was leaving behind: A city I loved. Friends and family I adored. A career I enjoyed.

At the time, I had no idea what I was heading towards: A place where everyone (including me) clicks. Where taps run cold and showers are a myth. To a town where families cook outside, teachers arrive drunk to school, and the color of my skin is the first thing people see. Where hospital patients have to sleep on floors, medicine runs out too soon and an old flatbed truck is the closest thing to an ambulance.

A place where most of what I thought I knew doesn’t make much sense anymore.

And even though I’m different from that girl I was a year ago today, sitting on a stoop in Brooklyn—naïve but certain, excited yet still somehow afraid—remembering her makes me smile.

Not because she’s gone. (Trust, I haven’t changed that much.) But because I’m certain that even now, given the same choice—between staying in a place she loved with the people she loved, or embarking on the unknown—despite the hardships, frustrations and sacrifices that lie ahead—she’d do it all again.

Without so much as a second thought.

HAPPY BIRTHDAY MOM!!!!

I hope you have a fantastic day!

LOVE YOU!

-jnaw

Silver Linings

It’s been a trying week.

A friend was pretty seriously injured in a car accident. I saw a woman die. And I witnessed total disregard for human life by a man who had vowed to protect it.

This week made me question people.
It made me question authority.
And it made me question myself.

I’m not sure how I’d deal with this kind of adversity in America—mostly because I never had to. My life there—despite its stress and hassles—was, by comparison, pretty easy. When things got tough, I had outlets for clearing my mind and releasing stress. There were happy hours with friends, phone calls to vent or extra sweat sessions at the gym. But those things aren’t options here. And to be honest, I’m not sure they’d help, even if they were.

So I’ve adopted a new coping mechanism: Being thankful.

It doesn’t rid my mind of the things I’ve witnessed or enable me to forget the words I’ve heard ... that’d be impossible. Instead, it forces me to focus on something else. Something just as important and just as big:

The positive.

Rather than try to repress resentment, anger and fear, I can, through the simple exercise of making a list, remind myself that—even amid this sadness and frustration—there’s always something (or someone) to be thankful for.

Here are just a few:

Weekly calls from home. Sunsets. 355 sunny days a year. Prestick. Mosquito nets. Small kids with big backpacks. Five-dollar coins. Audio books. Little boys with plastic capes. New tar roads. The orange pitcher that makes my bucket bath feel like a shower. CATJAR. When people know my name. NAM post. Sipho. Speech. A phone that works (finally). American magazines. Round faces with big smiles. The Office (and the person who sends it). My education. Katie’s care packages. Dried fruit. Trail running shoes. Sunglasses. Sunscreen. Free rides. My ipod. Amazing friends (both here and in the states). Chick Flicks. Havaianas. Bruce Springsteen. Gaining patience. Handwritten letters. Free SMSes. Tracy. My Awareness Club. Gift, “Short for Present.” SMSes from the states. Feeling like I’ve accomplished something. Quiet walks. That kids yell, “I love you!” instead of “//Hosa!” Stationary with my name on it. Richel. Facebook Mobile. Love letters from learners. My mom and dad. Memories of NYC. Kiwi fruit on sale. Soy milk. A Sunday afternoon that doesn’t last forever. M&Ms. Electricity (when we have it). Running water (almost all day). Random hugs. Critical thinking skills. Catherine and Abigale. Bivy sacks. Kids reading to me out loud. My office becoming the new library. The little boy who blew me a kiss. Coverage of the Olympics. Perfect weather. Fans. Plans. Saturday pants in Africa. Mornings. Not having to worry about money. Unlimited time to think.

This experience and the chance to see all that I have seen.

And 95 More...

!Gaeb Grade 7


Eddie Bowe Girls' Club (well...half of it anyway)


!Gaeb Grade 5

Twenty-Nine Smiles

The first of my dental care workshops took place today in a Grade Six class at T.F. !Gaeb Primary School.

The dentist gave me a huge pair of model teeth for demonstrations and I crafted giant fruits, vegetables and sugary sweets from construction paper for a game. There were handouts to color, stories to follow along with and stickers as prizes for the 29 students who seemed eager to learn.



I knew there was a serious need for oral care education in Khorixas. But even I was a bit surprised when just one little girl raised her hand after I asked, “How many of you own a toothbrush?”



The good news is, now they all do.

Cape Town Take III: Cape Peninsula Tour

We spent our final day in Cape Town on a Cape Peninsula tour. We were told that the southern-most tip of Africa was a must-see spot for travelers because of its scenic views, lush landscapes and the chance to see some African penguins.

The weather was—once again—clear, sunny and at least somehow warm. Perfect for our outdoor adventure that included hiking, biking and a delicious picnic lunch.

Cape Town Take II: The Wine Tour

Namibia is home to a handful of lagers and just one brand of wine, so Rachel and I were eager to tour some of South Africa’s vineyards and sample the finest vintage the country had to offer.

Our first stop, Fairview, was definitely the nicest. The vineyard sits on a grassy spread of land about 25 minutes outside of Cape Town, where rolling hills, wildflowers and grazing sheep line the country roads.

It was still early—only about 10 a.m.—when we arrived. But being on holiday, we were ready to taste regardless of time. So we lined up along the old wooden bar with the rest of our tour for six generous sips of whichever wines we liked. (My favorites: Viognier and the Spice Route Sauvignon Blanc.) This was followed by a “tasting” of eight different cheeses from the vineyard’s very own dairy.



Now in America, I probably would have been content with just a bite of each. But cheese in Namibia is expensive (definitely out of budget for this PCV) and also nearly impossible to come by—especially in Khorixas. So Rachel and I loitered near the chilled marble blocks and each time the cheese monger turned her back, we eagerly stabbed two or three cubes onto a single toothpick and secretly shoveled them into our mouths.

Absolutely delicious.

I realize this type of behavior should be well beyond someone who’s 27 (and definitely beyond someone who's nearly 28). But being a PCV is a lot like being a broke college kid (or a poor journalist for that matter). You take what little you can get whenever you can get it. And hey, at least I didn’t pocket more for the road!



The weather was—against all predictions—once again beautiful. So we gathered around a table at our second vineyard, Simonsig, for an outdoor tasting. Home to both the number one Shiraz in South Africa and the Woman Winemaker of the Year, Simonsig was just as nice as Fairview—but sadly, without the cheese.

The sunny outdoor seating provided perfect views of Simonsberg Mountain, and it was one of the few places we were able to enjoy South African sparkling wine (which, for the record, was delicious).



These two top-tier wineries were followed by lunch at a third vineyard and tastings at three slightly lesser ones. Rachel and I had opted out of purchasing a bottle of wine at Fairview, hoping to come across a cheaper or more delicious blend at one of our later stops.

Note to self: this is never a good plan.

It should have been obvious, but having never been on such a tour before, we had no idea what to expect. Tours, it seems, begin with the best places and the best wines.

Then they end with the last-resort vineyards where, if you’re like us, you purchase a 1.5 liter bag of Pinotage Rose for R30 (convinced you've gotten a great deal) and only later, while sitting on a bench on the cliffs of Hermanus, realize it’s utterly undrinkable...Even for a PCV.

Cape Town Take I: Table Mountain & Robben Island

My first trip to South Africa lasted less than 24 hours. Enough time to deplane, shower, eat and sleep, before boarding a second flight bound for Namibia.

I saw only hotel room walls, marble lobbies and cool water pools.

I left knowing as much about the place as when I’d arrived.

So when the August holiday rolled around it seemed only natural to return to the country where Nam 27 had gotten its Africa start. Rachel and I wanted to spend a couple of weeks exploring the South African countryside, following the world-famous Garden Route and learning about the nation’s culture and history (which are both closely linked to Namibia’s).



Our adventure began in Cape Town, following a 19-hour, overnight bus ride from Windhoek. (One that had us waiting at customs in the freezing cold at 3 a.m.) We were exhausted upon arrival, but also eager to see the city. It was amazing—clean, busy, continental. And while the scenic mountains and crystal clear ocean surrounding it were absolutely breathtaking, I’d be lying it I said they were my favorite part. Instead, this former New Yorker relished the tar roads, city sidewalks, and yes—real coffee in paper cups (with soy milk at no extra charge).

It was absolutely glorious.



We spent most of our first day exploring the city. For me, this meant eating nachos and drinking Coronas at a few of the Mexican joints that lined Long Street. Sure, these two things are not uniquely (or even remotely) South African. But after 10 months in a culinary vacuum I was excited to see my favorites from a former life.

By day two, with our bellies finally full, we were ready to see the sites. We’d been warned that the weather in Cape Town would likely be terrible—cold, cloudy, rainy and wet. But at 8 a.m. the skies were clear and blue and the sun was shining. The conditions were perfect for hiking Table Mountain.



We’d read somewhere that the walk from town to the mountain wasn’t much fun, and other travelers recommended taking a taxi. But taxis cost money and we were rocking a serious budget. So Rachel and I decided, fun or not, we were walking the 10k from our hostel.

The route was scenic. It rolled through city streets and up wooded residential areas, passed beautiful houses and interesting shops. But less than 2k in we realized what made the trek so absolutely heinous: It was straight up vertical. We weren’t even to the mountain and already were in need of walking sticks, water and a serious rest. (And, it seemed, a membership to a gym.)

But we pressed on, and with 1k left to go, took a lift from a crazy combi driver who thought we were the insane ones for even attempting to hoof it up the hills. We’d hiked enough on the walk there, so Rachel and I swallowed our pride (and forked over the R80) and rode the cable car to the top of Table Mountain.

The views were amazing.



We spent a couple of hours exploring the paths (and the gift shop) before taking the cable car down and heading to Robben Island. For the record, this notorious prison is on the opposite side of Cape Town. We, of course, learned this the hard way. It's also one of the biggest tourist destinations in the country.

I’d read Long Walk to Freedom in preparation for our trip and was eager to see the place where Nelson Mandela had spent so many years of his life.

Unfortunately, this was as close as we got:



The day’s trips to the prison were fully booked and with other plans for the following two days, it was the one opportunity we had to visit. I was disappointed it didn’t pan out, but tried not to get discouraged. After all, I saved R130. And well, it probably would have been a lot like the book anyway.