Soaring on Sand

And the days continue to race by in the colours of sand, sea, and sunsets; melancholy, solitude, and wonder, highlighted with soaring moments of joy, lowlighted with structural and situational frustrations. I had another successful day at the dune--the final day, a completion of my basic training. The morning was somewhat uneventful; the wind was oddly absent despite the fact that the sun and heat had come earlier than usual, burning off the fog well before 10 o'clock. I practised front starts, back starts, and ground handling as the other students worked with Mario. I was the last one to leave the dune that day; I had been waiting patiently for my moment with the wind. Mario remarked on how well I had done in spite of the non-favourable weather conditions. He paused for a second and then added:

"But if we don't find these to be the ideal conditions, then I don't know where we will."

Soon after, the wind whispered in my ears and gestured for me to come play. I followed her lead with my glider, lifting her up gently and then began dancing with my brakes, risers, and hips. At one point, a gust came along and knocked me onto my back side. Instead of righting myself up again, I stayed there on the ground in the sand, laying under her as she pulled me forward again and again. I was completely mesmorised by the interaction and it was not until Mario ran over and collapsed my wing with his arms that I realised what was happening --- I was moments away from being swept off and over the towering dune; the wind speed had quickly rose much higher!

"I had to stop you," he told me, out of breath from running. The wind would have carried you away completely had I not."

"Can't you let it?" I pleaded, as my eyes stared off into the eastern skies. I already knew what his answer would be and yet, I nonetheless felt compelled to try. Sehnsucht overcame my entire being and I suddenly only longed to be taken wherever the wind would lead me into the dunes beyond.

The desert as I have seen it both in the Namib-Naukluft National Park and in Swakopmund contains what every desert should---vast, empty space, ephemeral water beds, mirages, heat which scorches the earth, wind which transforms it, and desert flowers which exist in spite of their unforgiving environment, affirming the wonder and beauty of life against a desolate backdrop.

As a desert wanderer, one cannot believe in every distant lake she sees, for the water which sparkles in the reflection of her wide, hopeful eyes could slowly fade away with each approaching step, like a sinister apparition diverting her attention from the sand beneath her feet. She has to understand that she cannot expose herself to the wind at every fleeting whim and that its habits often shift without warning. Behind every mountain made of sand that she climbs sits another, always beckoning to her and concealing behind it still others, ad infinitum. When she glances behind her, she finds that formerly summitted mountains have already changed, still recognisable, at the same time unfamiliar.

She carries on in solitude in the most inhospitable environment, burned by the sun directly overhead, without shade or shelter for refuge. But she holds herself well and with a joyful disposition. Despite illusion after crushing illusion of a water well to replenish her weather-worn spirit, she always manages to find one whenever she truly needs it. She knows this truth in her heart and so is able to tread lightly across the shifting earth free of apprehension or despondency.

She dances in dust devils and always pauses 20 seconds before the sun tucks behind the horizon, admiring the most brilliantly variegated sunsets. She endeavours to befriend all the desert's living creatures. Not all reciprocate her kindness but as the sky grows dark and the air becomes colder, she knows that she's protected. Nowhere else has she ever so clearly and intimately interacted with the forces of this earth, waxing and waning, rising and falling, being and transforming, to the beat of nature's breathing lungs. The desert is empty and yet it contains everything! She knows this and that is why she continues on her journey of discovery, in the hope that one day she will also come to understand her role in it.

Desert Flower

“I didn’t expect you to come back.”

I handed the boy my shopping bag full of groceries including bread, lunch meat, and drinking yogurt.

“Well, I did,” I smiled. “So you told me that you would tell me why you didn’t want to come with me when I returned.”

The boy hesitated.

“You promised,” I insisted.

“I didn’t go with you because I don’t feel comfortable going in those places.” Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the boy sneaking a peek through the plastic to determine its contents. He smiled shyly. I handed the bag to him, then said goodbye and continued into town.

---
My mind travelled back to the windsock dancing in the wind, alone amongst sand and distant blue waves, which were beginning to whitecap. Each individual strip of fabric was undulating to its own tune, but the collection of movements was all together a tune of its own, beautiful to witness.

As I was interacting with my glider wing, I noticed that when I was listening to, giving, and receiving with the wind, my mind was quiet – I wasn’t thinking! Mario later scolded me for that very point, saying that I missed the objective of the entire lesson and didn’t complete even one of the exercises that he had asked me to do. He asked me in a very frustrated voice what my goal had been out there, in the desert off to the western side where I had wandered, and I tell you now that no matter how hard I try to rack my brain for reasons as to why I did what I did, and forgot what I was supposed to do, I honestly cannot come up with any. I only remember feeling that the wind was speaking to me through the wing and when I genuinely listened, it danced with me. Whenever I became distracted or reverted to an automatic reaction, the wing dropped to the ground.

I was so focused on this interaction that I became oblivious to the direction in which we, the wing and I, were heading, or at least how quickly we were moving there. I remember wondering, “is this something like God?” as my wing filled with air and I responded with the brakes and A-risers.

---

Fleeting interactions with Charles came and went. His communication was irregular and not always clear. I met his family in an outer suburb of Swakop; we had dinner and watched a movie together. Charles was silent most of the time and tended to avoid me. I couldn’t determine whether this perplexing behavior could be attributed to extreme shyness, general apathy, or perhaps even regret towards my presence in his home. In the end, it was I who lost interest in the whole endeavour of meeting with him and getting him to talk. Why should I try to force a situation into a direction it doesn’t want to go?

--

My heart warms when I think of Nico, his wrench which he always carried on him (“because you never know when you’ll need one!”), the flower strapped on the nose of his plane with a :-), the way he always called me Milady, with a bow, our antics in the hangar practising our switches, watching a Namibian sunrise from above. I miss you, Nico. You understand what magic is and how to summon it. You do what you do because it is what you love and what you find to be inspiring. People judge and criticise you because they don’t understand you; their ignorance is illuminated through their ridicule. You, like so many other things I’ve discovered since I’ve been here, should continue to exist—and need to—because you make life beautiful. You make the lifelong daily struggle to find meaning worth it through simple (inter)actions that you may never know so greatly impacted another person. The time I spent with you was a wonderful gift and I will never forget it.

Please, Nico, continue to exist as you do.
Don’t give in and never give up.

Sad Realities

Yesterday’s ride back to the coast became a test in patience and control. M— and I had been on the outskirts of Omaruru to purchase last-minute drinks and snacks at a gas station whose ownership had recently been turned over to a black Namibian, when M— made a comment regarding “blacks and their inability to take something over and run it nicely.” Immediately, I felt as if a dozen fists had sunk into my solar plexis. As he left me in the car to purchase his drinks, I simultaneously felt myself becoming aufgeregt and numb. Mostly, I could hardly believe what I had just heard coming from the mouth of the person who said it. When he returned, I became noticeably quiet and continued to be so as we headed west along the tarred road to Swakop.

For the next 30 minutes, we argued about things so absurd that I cannot even repeat them here. The conversation perpetuated my feeling of numbness and defeat. Mostly, I just wanted to get the hell out of Namibia, away from the bigots I'd encountered who despite being in this beautiful country filled with incredible adventures and experiences managed to mar its allure with the stain of chauvinism and profound lack of humanity.

Angry tears formed underneath my sunglasses but I dared not let one spill out into open view. I resolved to leave Swakop as soon as practical; I had absolutely null desire to have M— as my teacher anymore. This entire experience, which up to this point had radiated such a sense of warmth—of magic, even—became irreversibly weighed down by sad realities. Suddenly, my desire to fly as I had the week before on my dune next to the sea seemed futile. My heart was simply no longer in it.

The day’s events pulled me in a strange, surreal space. Shortly after we arrived at M—'s house, I excused myself and went to my room filled with nothing but a drum set and a mattress. I called upon any energy which happened to be around to help me recharge mentally and spiritually so that I would be able to properly start a new day. I wanted so badly to leave but in the end, I chose to stay. Running away has never proven itself to be a solution in my life.

Getting Higher in Omaruru...

Yesterday evening we arrived in Omaruru and went directly to the airfield. Several pilots were already there with their microlights in preparation for the Microlight Association’s meeting the following morning. Mario and I unloaded the equipment which included 2 paragliders, 2 Käfige, 2 motors, some mattresses, pillows, and other sundries. While Mario was setting up the powered gliders, I took a couple of flights in the microlights of David and Nico Van Dyk from Uis. It was incredible to see Namibia from the sky, though both David and Nico noted that the landscape was extraordinarily green this year due to increased rainfall. We flew over mountains, dry riverbeds, and even Nico’s uncle’s house! On our motorcycle with wings, we soared over the lush green bush until the sun tucked under the horizon. Afterwards, we had an evening braai and a few drinks (an Appletizer and orange juice for me), chatting in a mixture of English, German, and Afrikaans. I was delighted to discover that my comprehension level had not declined over the years since my time in Tübingen.

That night, we slept in the hangar under the wing of one of the microlights, tail number V5-UEH, Schneeger in between Mario and me. I slept soundly, hovering mosquitoes notwithstanding, until daybreak when I was awoken by the sound of the hangar door opening and with it, the roar of several engines starting at once.

“Heather!!!” Nico yelled excitedly from the entrance. “Would you like to come flying still?”

Sleepy-eyed, I popped out of bed like a child on Christmas morning and ran over to grab my shoes. Five minutes later, I was wearing my goggles and adjusting my headset, preparing for take-off as 8 other pilots were doing the same.

The sun had barely crept over the horizon and the wind was completely still. After our run-up, we took off into the frozen wind, leaving a trail of dust behind us, and lifted off into the sky. As we climbed, the air became significantly warmer and I was able to relax into my chair a bit more. Being so high again for the third time in just 12 hours was incredible. I half-thought I was still dreaming next to Schneeger in my sleeping bag; I was so happy at that moment, well I still am! Flight is such a marvelous thing, especially with the freedom of being in a microlight or under a paraglider wing.

We landed and were transported by a covered shuttle to a rather large colonial-style house for coffee and breakfast. Afterwards, we returned for the meeting, which I admittedly skipped in favour of writing and resting. Mario and I are planning on travelling to Swakop this evening in order to return to the dune tomorrow morning to sail over the foggy sands once more. Our hope is to be able to continue to do so each day until the end of the week.

Usakos

The minibus towards Swakop left surprisingly close to the time I arrived at the central bus station at 9:30 am. I was pleasantly surprised by the level of efficiency with which we all loaded the bus and set off, an unusual occurance on this side of the equator. Everything was looking good to arrive at the coast by 13… until the driver decided to make an unexpected stop at a petrol station for no reason apparent to me. As the minibus halted to a screeching stop, reggae blasting through broken speakers, the cheery middle-aged woman sitting to my left extended the bag of potato chips towards me that she had been snacking on, urging me to “Eat! Eat!” I smiled and took a chip while offering her my roll of strawberry Mentos. She took one and placed it in her pocket.

The farther we travelled from Windhoek, the more certain I became that I would in fact not be making it to Swakop by 13 hours. Mario texted me a couple of times during the ride, anxious to know my current location and updated ETA. At the second major stop in a small, dusty town called Usakos, I made the executive decision to exit the bus 2 hours early, calling Mario and informing him that I would wait to be picked up there instead, as I crawled over several other passengers in the tightly-packed, non-airconditioned bus to reach the sliding door. I gathered my bags, which were being toted in a small trailer behind us, said my goodbyes to the passengers with whom I had been chatting along the way (my friend ate her Mentos and commented on how delicious it was), and made my way down the ‘main street’ in search of some sort of café or restaurant at which to wait for my ride.

The town was literally in the middle of sweltering-desert-nowhere, in all directions, as far as the eye could see. After passing two restaurant/guesthouses which, by the dilapidated looks of them, hadn’t seen a single soul in years, I found a biergarten that appeared to also serve food. A scrawny-looking fellow with a slight limp, who had been following me the entire time – I had been watching him out of the corner of my eye – asked me if I needed assistance in finding anything. I politely declined and continued walking. He appeared to back off but I knew from experience that this was not the last I would see of him. My suspicions were confirmed as I stepped inside the bar area and made my way to the counter to order. I heard his meek voice from behind me, asking me where I was from. I told him and then paused, waiting to hear the request that I knew had been a long time coming. He asked me politely if I could perhaps buy him something to eat. At the same time, the others in the restaurant turned curiously towards me to hear what my response would be.

“Of course,” I replied, knowing fully well by the looks of disapproval that ensued what they were thinking, that the village thief had just successfully scammed yet another naïve westerner. I gather they weren’t aware that my response was accompanied by the complete knowledge of who he probably was and how often he most likely approached others similar to myself with the same request. However, after having spent months in the Zambian refugee camps, where I went to bed on an empty belly enough times to remember what it’s like to be hungry, I can no longer refuse somebody who is asking me for something to eat, regardless of who they are and in spite of all of the judgment I receive from others as a result.

I sat down at one of the tables in the biergarten with my hotdog and began to eat while texting Mario more about the details of where I had wandered off to. My concentration was abruptly interrupted by the waitress I had met at the counter. She informed me with a slight grin that there was someone who was requesting my permission to come and speak with me. She pointed to a table on the other side of the room next to some people playing billiard. There, my eyes set on a timid, young guy sitting in a large group of smiling friends with curly black hair, light brown skin, and vibrantly green eyes.

I turned my gaze away from him and paused for a moment before replying to her that it would be okay for him to come over. She left to inform him of my response and then came back shortly thereafter, laughing and commenting that he seemed a bit shy. He did eventually come over to introduce himself as Charles, a Namibian native who was currently studying in Cape Town. We chatted for a bit about travelling and flying. The whole time, I couldn’t help but continue to stare at his remarkably green eyes, which he diverted nervously from time to time. His friends came over after a while, signaling that it was time for him to go. Interestingly enough, he is also planning to travel to Swakopmund in the next day or two. I have a feeling that I will be seeing him again sometime very soon…

Urban Desert

We reached the end of our desert safari today, making a journey from the camp near Sossusvlei to Windhoek with only one stop for a picnic lunch along the way. After saying my goodbyes – especially to Nat, Sammie, and Shin – I headed off separately to the Chameleon Backpacker’s lodge. I arrived without a reservation, under the assumption that a hostel always has at least one bed to spare, somewhere. And that is exactly what I got: the very last bed in the compound, which was not technically in a room but rather next to the building outside with the campers, who appeared to be long-term guests. With my payment, I received a small locker the size of a dresser drawer to store my valuables and a key to the front gate.

Today, I have traded desert camping for its urban counterpart. This reminded me so much of Paco and my urban camping adventure of summer 2006, making our way to the roof of an unnamed apartment complex and camping on one of the picnic tables up there. From my bottom bunk, I have a clear view of the stars, even more so than I had yesterday through the vent of my canvas tent. The cool breeze feels nice on my face and shoulders. It is a welcome respite to what lies just outside the gate…

The ambience of Windhoek as a whole is strange and somewhat off-putting. The German influence in the city layout and general mentality is clear – from street signs bearing names like Schlossstrasse to the pubs and beer gardens lining the main streets to the invisible nightly curfew that everyone seems to follow without exception – colonialism has clearly left its mark on this place. ‘Vibrant’ is hardly a word I would use to describe what it’s like to walk on these lonely streets. Shops close at 17:30 sharp. The streets begin to clear out shortly thereafter. Everything is neat and tidy but somehow devoid of a 'city soul.' Casinos can be found staggered throughout the town bearing names like “Bandit.” Young men loiter outside ATMs, eager to “help” expatriates to use their “international cards” on local machines. Conversations with shopkeepers are frequently awkward and unpleasant. One gets the feeling that everything, from the lack of local hospitality to the unavailability of just about anything after five, seems to be saying “Get out.” After dark, every variety of unscrupulous individual can be found wandering the otherwise empty streets.

I texted Mario from the “Grand Canyon Steakhouse” (which belongs to the Spur franchise), as I sat on the restaurant's balcony that I would be heading to Swakopmund the next morning. He replied that he was planning to travel to Omaruru to join colleagues for the Microlight Association meeting and invited me to come along. I accepted the offer enthusiastically – how could I have refused?

So Mario informed me, “Ok, ich freue mich dich zu sehen. Erhole dich und pass auf dich auf. Samstag morgen um 6 uhr fliegen wir alle microlight in Omaruru. Bis morgen.” (“Ok, I am looking forward to see you. Get yourself together and take care on your trip back. Saturday morning at 6 o’clock, we will all be flying microlights together in Omaruru. Until then.”) And that was that.

I managed to find an internet café in the area, where I started to research flights and entry requirements to the DR Congo for next month’s mission to Lubumbashi. I was disappointed to find no flights under 500 USD. (I thought that M- had mentioned something about a $100 one-way?) and the website for the Congolese Embassy in Windhoek was nowhere to be found. Frustrated, I headed back to Chameleon in a shared taxi with Brett, where we said our bon voyages and Don’t Dies. Now I am just hoping to get a wink or two of sleep in my al fresco suite before I catch the next minibus to Swakop early tomorrow morning. These last days have been strange and surreal, and are likely to continue to be so in the upcoming months…

Mountains Made of Sand

I suppose it’s appropriate that I begin this journal on the first day that I’ve spent in Sossusvlei, Namibia’s wonderfully desiccated national park filled with crimson dunes framing ephemeral saltpans. We spent the day exploring the desert, hiking up thousand-foot dunes, and then – seemingly against the law of gravity – running straight down them. As it neared midday, the sand became quite hot; it seeped relentlessly into my sandals and in between my toes, causing the most excruciating pain. This gave me no other option but to leap around until it stopped momentarily, affording me a fleeting moment of solace.

The most challenging dune that we hiked was said to be the largest in the world, at roughly 330 meters high and which took approximately 45 minutes to summit. Up so high and surrounded by such a vast sea of red, I truly felt as though I were dreaming.

......climbing and soaring, pausing to hear the wind whistling past the ridge, watching the sand beetles scurry across the path, barely leaving a trace behind them, feeling the warm sand swallow my toes with each step, and looking down into the valley of Dead Vlei, following my breath as I tiptoed along the ridge......

This was partly enjoyed in the company of good friends, partly on a silent journey apart from the group – a balance in which all of life should be experienced.

Now, I am back at the camp, relaxing and unwinding from the day. Today was good, really good. Like the sands, these days have been ephemeral, majestic, awe-inspiring, tough in surprising ways, sometimes unforgiving, always incomprehensively vast and profound. Now, as the sun sets and the desert's creatures prepare to rest in the comforting blanket of the still, cool evening, I crawl into my own sleeping bag and open the flap in my tent which provides a view of the stars outside.

Earlier today, I found this journal in a small shoppe outside the park entrance, just as my last journal was less than 10 pages from finishing. It was a lesson that things tend to appear when they need to – one shouldn’t stress too much over that point. If one has properly prepared herself, then she only need allow the universe to take care of the rest. I don’t know how or why it always works out this way, but such has been the case in my life for things both essential and mundane.

It was so lovely to see a group of individuals working towards the same summit at their own pace, together on the journey and yet separate at the same time. During my own journey, I often heard the echo of Mario whispering in my ear in the moments where I struggled:

“Those thoughts of hesitation and apprehension are poison! Get them out of your head! Your thoughts will always lead to corresponding action. Remember that.”