Cheating Death in a Donkey Cart

Few things are more Namibian than a donkey cart ride at sunset.

And, as I learned today, few things are more terrifying.



In a town where cars are scarce and distances can be far, families rely on these makeshift vehicles to carry them from home to farm or farm to town.

Namibians make it look easy. When they do it, it seems almost safe.

But for a couple of volunteers (including one from NYC) mounting a donkey cart is a lot like asking to die.

Especially with Speech at the reigns.



While I’ve ridden the Magnum at Cedar Point and taken taxicabs on New Year’s Eve, I’ve never felt the fear of death quite like I did tonight. We tore through the rocky streets of Khorixas in a rickety cart made from a rusted-out truck bed perched on two rejected car tires.

I crouched on a thin metal ledge as Speech whipped our three donkeys into gear with a worn rubber strap, and I clutched Jessica’s knee with a fierce white-knuckle grip while thanking God for the two tiny and fearless learners using my shoulders for balance. Round-faced children lined the streets yelling, "//Osa! //Osa!" and grannies clapped their hands as we barreled past.



If Khorixas had a newspaper, we would be all over tomorrow’s front page: Three crazy white girls fearing for their lives aboard Namibia’s most popular mode of transport. But it doesn't, so we won't.

And instead, we'll wake up in the morning just happy to still be alive.