…continued from the previous post.

.If you want to start at the beginning of this series, start here.

As we toodle on down the road, my intrepid nature is quelled by Andrew’s nervous fiddling with the Bear-Pig-Dog packet. What could it be? What could it be?

“Andrew, google ‘bear, pig, dog.,” I say, but then remember we have no internet.

I wait two more hours until we edge closer to Windoek, but Andrew still finds nothing useful for “bear-pig-dog.” I observe the state of my stomach to consider if “regret” is creeping in, but so far, there are no ill effects.

We find our room in Windoek, and we are pleased with the accommodations. A nice room with air conditioning, a pretty courtyard with a pool, and a friendly dog named “angel.” I crack open the laptop and I am relieved to find strong internet while Andrew confirms our schedule with Mattias.

Exploring Windoek

In the meantime (besides work) Andrew decided to seek out a haircut, as he was feeling a bit shaggy. We ask our hotelier for guidance, and he instructs us to head over toward a part of town that contains a historic church, business buildings, and the mall. “All the barbershops are in a row in the alleyway behind the mall,” he said, hesitating. “You might find something that will work, there.”

Andrew smiles and looks forward to throwing some poor Namibian barber for a loop. “I’ll stay here to work while you go find your haircut. Maybe we can go out for dinner.” I say. Andrew agrees.

A few hours later he returns victorious, with a tidy haircut.

“How’d it go?” I ask.

With glee, Andrew relates to me the uncertainty that plagued of a series of at least three individuals in the making of this haircut. #1 the man he cornered in the mall to request more detailed guidance to the barbershop alley. #2 the patrons sitting at the barbershop as Andrew waited his turn, and #3 the poor barber who looked down at Andrew's shiney, fine-haired head and said, “you’re not from around here, are you?"

Andrew giggles. “I’m not entirely sure what was being said, but the barber had an audience and I think bets were being made."

I survey the outcome, “It looks fine!"

“Yeah, I think he did a good job.”

Andrew loves testing barbers in foreign ports.

After his haircut, he took me along for a walk. We explored buildings in the area, including one tall skycraper/museum that was funded by North Korea. We didn't go in, but I remain curious about what the North Koreans curated for that museum.

We meet a man trying to swindle us out of “donations” for people with AIDS. He worked hard with a clipboard and a survey, but there were also the taletell signs of falsehood. So, we chatted for a moment and told him we wished him great luck and sent him on his way.

We found an art installation displaying a series of meteroites that had landed in the desert.

And we walked through the mall, people-watching.

A Complete Loss of Credibility

That evening, we went for dinner, but we were herded to a restaurant the hotel deemed “safe” and that they swore we would enjoy. We were suspicious, but they were insistent that our safety required this level of supervision. So, we ducked into their van and followed instructions along-side a couple honeymooning from France. We found ourselves in a massive, sprawling old-west style saloon with cheese burgers, pizza and German faire. Fine, but a tad touristy.

The honeymooners invited us to join their table, and we enjoyed good conversation until they started asking us our favorite this and our favorite that of our sailing circumnavigation. In response, Andrew would detail all the places he has been with “the best food in the world” (not France).

Disgusted enough with these responses to turn to another topic, they asked “Do you think Windoek is really unsafe? It was their first day in town and they had a large road trip planned.

“I think it’s probably fine. The hotel probably get kickbacks for corraling us here.” Andrew said. .

I agreed, "We are going into the heart of Windoek tomorrow to have lunch with a local friend at his house. So, I hope it’s safe.”

Our honeymooners look toward each other and exchanged silent skepticism. Our credibility was really shot with Andrew’s assessment of “the best wine in the world” (also, not France.)

Finding Mattias’s House

Safety is one of those things you should probably suss out before casting off to drive around town, but in all our travels through Namibia, it felt as friendly and safe as anywhere else. Poor, but safe. In fact, more friendly and safe than many places we’ve been. (Seattle, Washington having its rougher aspects.) Maybe we are desensitized?

We piled into the truck with our stash of sour milk and dry meat, and followed the google maps instructions to Mattias’s neighborhood. This, however, is where the strictly accurate instructions ran dry. We pulled into the neighborhood and tried to follow the next steps via texts from Mattias.

This is the kind of neighborhood where people sit outside more than inside. Onlookers all around us turn from their laundry, work on various mechanical devices, or from watching kids play to see out-of-place Oddgodfreys in a out-of-place vehicle creeping about. No one waves us down, no one makes a move our way, they just look at us: curious.

We stop and idle while texting Mattias.

He sorts out we are one block not far enough. So, we do a three point turn in an extremely tight corner of the neighborhood and drive out. We turn left on the main road, drive one block further, and enter again.

Mattias meets us on the corner of this block and leads us on foot toward his brother’s house. We park the truck, and hop out.

Mattias greets us like old friends and a measure of surprise. “I thought for sure when I told you where I live you would not come!” He said. This makes me a bit sad and I ponder the divides we place upon ourselves based on differences in opportunity and wealth. “My brother has agreed to watch after your truck while we eat lunch.” Mattias says. This is probably not necessary, but I think Mattias felt like it would make us feel more comfortable, and so we say “thank you” and shake hands with Mattias’ brother and his wife.

Mattias takes us deeper into the neighborhood where the road narrows to footpaths of packed desert sand. We speak to all his neighbors and friends along the way. Then, Mattias opens the door to his home. Made of shiney metal, the door swings open to a table set with a table cloth and four chairs. His daughter Miriam is there with her little friend, Diana. Miriam is shy again, but she warms up to us as we sit and wait and eventually she is on my lap asking to take selfies together. Mattias’s wife had to work, which was a shame, “My sister, Lavinda, will cook for us, instead.” Mattias said.

Mattias shows us pictures of his wife. She is also beautiful.

“Now, I believe in your culture, you eat together with your hosts, right?” Mattias says to us. We agreed. This isn't the first time we've had this question. And, Mattias explains: “Here in Namibia, if we have guests come to our home, it is polite for us to allow them to eat first. So, normally, we would have you eat first. But, I know that is odd for you, and so unless you would rather do it the Namibia way, we will eat with you.”

I am relieved because I feel exceedingly awkward eating first. We've had to do this a few times over the course of our travels, and this particular desire to eat with friends is at the root-core of my own human experience. I imagine the other way is at the root-core of Mattias’ experience, though, and so I am grateful for the concession I know he is making.

Lavinda sets the table for a family style, traditional meal that Mattias’ tribe would eat: rehydrated local spinach with marula oil on top, bean stew again topped with marula oil, rehydrated maupani worms, and pap. Pap is ground corn flour stirred up with water and allowed to set into a dense, unrisen style of cornbread. When you pull it apart, you can squish it into shape for dipping into the beans or the spinach, or to eat along with the maupani.

“Usually the maupani is made with spice, but I am afraid you don't like spice?” Mattias explained.

...I’m afraid don't like maupani!

But, I don't say that.

“We usually eat this all with our hands.” Mattias explained, but I have spoons for you because I know you prefer spoons?

I do prefer spoons.

Mattias is just the perfect host.

And so, we dig into our meal and enjoy trying everything.

I eat three maupani worms. That is the best I can do. They are a bit like catipillars.

I enjoy the bean stew, the spinach, and the pap. I absolutely love the marula oil. Marula oil comes from the nut that grows on the same tree that the maupani hang out on. It has a golden color and a rich flavor a bit like Macadamia nut for comparison.

culinary Mysteries uravelled

Conversation flows freely. We present our host with our treasure of sour milk, dried meat, butter and cream. Mattias’ eyes light up and he immediately pours it over the bowl of the pap. “OAahooww, so delicious! My favorite!”

“Mattias,” I say, “it’s hard for us to imagine how this milk sits in the sun like it does. In America, all our milk is refrigerated.” Mattias nods. “Andrew even asked Caleb if we had to refrigerate the milk between the time we picked it up and the time we saw you.”

This gives Mattias a giggle, but then he says: “This jug will last me three months, unrefrigerated." I’ve made yogurt before. I know how sour it gets after 12 hours. I know how sour it gets when you forget and leave it in the engine room for a full 24 hours. Three months!? My face puckers at the thought.

But then I remember, the Bear-Pig-Dog.

“So, Mattias, I have a question for you.”

“Hmm?” Mattias questions, still leaning over his treat.

“The woman who sold the dried meat also sold a meat that was in a hot cast iron pot with a sweet and spicy sauce.”

“Yes...” He says, “did you try it?”

“I did,” I said, “but I don’t know what it was.”

“Did you like it?” he asked.

“It was delicious! ...but I don’t know what it was. We asked the woman with the help of a man who knew some English, and the only English translation he could come up with for the animal she named was ‘bear-pig-dog’.”

Mattias thinks… “bear-pig-dog” he repeats. “What could that be?”

“Yeah, that was my question. I as hoping you would know.”

“It was delicious?” Mattias asked.

“Yes, very.”

Mattias thinks a moment longer and then says, “Oh, then. It has to be warthog.”

“Ooooh, yessss....warthog!!!” we all say together, nodding and agreeing. And suddenly, bear-pig-dog seems like a very apt description.

At the end of the afternoon, we leave with bellies full, a feeling of close friendship, and a well-cared-for rental truck. I am deeply grateful the cell tower in Luderitz died its early death and forced us onto this very great adventure.