Let the pictures tell the story ....

Have just come back from spending the week at NaDEET Centre where 35 learners from Mariental Primary School spent the week learning about how to live sustainably.  Rather than write about the programme today, I thought I’d let the pictures tell the story this time.  Hope you enjoy!  I certainly did!

  

Arrival – 35 children and 3 teachers from Mariental Primary School arrive on Monday afternoon.  After piling out the truck (normally used to transport livestock) many learners had the look of “where are we doing here?”

 

 

Learners embark on the 15 min walk over the dunes to NaDEET Centre.   I stayed at the back so I could take pix.  Actually, that’s complete bollocks – I couldn’t keep up – can walk forever on the flat but put me on a sand dune and what you’ll see are legs pumping up and down but body not moving forward.

 

\On arrival, some learners seem to be thinking, “you are kidding me – are we really staying here?” and some, after inspecting excellent bucket shower facilities and very upmarket long drop loos, look, well, something like this ...

But that’s soon forgotten when the programme gets started!  So let’s go …

 

 

 

Understanding weather measurements

 

The wonderful Retatuhee (Emmy or the Divine Ms Em) demonstrates how solar cookers and solar ovens work.  The kids will cook food for everyone in teams using only solar cookers and ovens.

 

Karley demonstrates how power is generated at NaDEET.  All electricity at NaDEET is generated by the sun.

  The Water Cycle Dance

                                                                             

     

  

Learners dance during a group bonding activity.

A trust activity

Selma

 Back to the books

Firebrick production

 

  Seeing traps to learn about desert critters 

 Mr Personalty - Ronaldo

 Look at what we caught!

 NaDEET Centre from the dunes

 Ancient Heart - why wouldn't I keep coming back?

Learners present enviro-dramas

Drama host "Nick"or man talking to domestic cleaning instrument

  

Best friends

 

Group Photo

And just to prove I'm actually here

 

And just for fun ...

The Divine Ms Em

Flying Hight

 Learners' dune art

Until next time, it's AMO signing off 

 

Gear selection, gear selection, gear selection!

Gear selection, gear selection, gear selection – this was an oft repeated mantra when I stayed at Tok-Tokkie 12 years ago.  After several attempts to summit the dunes on the road to Shaftsburg ended in dismal failure on my part, I long ago gave up the hope of ever driving in Namibia.

Afterall, I haven’t driven a manual in over 35 years and even then, I managed to get booked for a bald tyre when my brother was trying to teach me that changing gears in a random pattern was not really an exercise in creativity and that sometimes, approaching new tasks in a logical, linear fashion can be totally satisfying.

So it was with some trepidation that on my first morning at the Namib Desert Environmental Education Centre (NaDEET) I was to undertake the NaDEET driving test (which involved driving up and down the airstrip) in this, a bakkie 4x4:

 

Well, I thought, I can only fail (again) and if I did tend to wander onto the wrong side of the airstrip every time I changed gears, at least I wouldn’t be attracting the attention of the local constabulary unless, of course, they were in the area doing a desert guiding course.

Gear selection, gear selection, gear selection – what was it again?  Oh yes, remember the “H” diagram for 1^st, 2^nd, 3^rd and 4^th. Oh, and reverse is the funny one on the extreme right and pull backwards, or is it forwards?  Never mind, I probably won’t even get to that.  Amazingly, I went up and down the airstrip without a single kangaroo hop, no gravel slide and no absent-minded weaving from left to right although did manage the requisite attempt to go from 1^st to 4^th in one fell swoop.  However, I had remembered enough to be an alternate driver which I thought would only involve driving the short distance up and down from NaDEET base to the Centre on a completely private road.  Yeah, even I could manage that!

Elsewhere at NaDEET, Eric had developed a nasty infection on one of his fingers which clearly required more than Dettol and a band-aid.  The closest clinic is in Maltahohe, a small inland town of approximately 2,000 residents founded in 1900 which hosts the mighty Agra – an agribusiness supplier where you can buy lip balm, chocolate, cement, power tools, fencing, soup packets, water tanks – pretty much everything – all at the one stop. 

The Agra Shopping Experience

Guide books will tell you Colonel Henning von Burgsdorf, who established the Schutztruppe (??) here, named the town after his wife Malta.  I could not find out whether she was pleased with this decision or not.

It’s a 4-hour round trip on gravel roads, up the Tsaris mountain pass onto the central highland plateau, a long flat stretch of land sparsely populated with various types of thorny bushes like camel thorns, and dry grasses, black-faced karakul sheep, a few kamikaze mongooses and the occasional Cape Cobra out for a slide.  Most years it looks perpetually parched with few trees offering respite from the sun, however, this year Namibia has had its  highest rainfall in a very long time, so although the grasses have dried out, they are long and still retain a vestige of green and patches of yellow and purple wildflowers are still evident.

Sadly, this was not Eric’s day.  Not only did he have a very sore finger, he now had to rely on me to get him to the clinic in one piece physically and emotionally.  I was sure I would get him there – eventually – but as to his emotional state upon arrival, well I wasn’t quite prepared to vouch for that.  If he was a nervous wreck by the time we reached the clinic, I reasoned, at least the clinic might be able to give him something to calm him down for the return journey.  

 

 

Eric and his troublesome finger!

Now, people living in remote locations must use every opportunity to stock up on supplies, so when anyone “goes to town” for whatever reason, there is always a list of other things to do when you get there.  My shopping list included 15 bags of cement and 1 builder named Nicklaus, a person that neither Eric nor I had ever seen before.

So off we set with a couple of full water bottles, a few nibblies and a cell phone to call to advise our position and to contact Nicklaus.  Now Eric is also a musician so we had lots to chat about.  I did mention to him that although I had been driving a long time and had a very safe record,  I hadn’t had much experience driving a manual, well none actually, as I don’t suppose I could count the attempt when I received the aforementioned traffic violation, but I calmed myself with the thought that how hard could it be?  I reckoned I’d have it worked out within the first 20 km, just please, no hill starts on the Tsaris Pass, oh and no reverse parking, if possible.

It was a lovely sunny day, actually Namibia has lovely sunny days about 350 days of the year.  Having been a passenger on this route many times before, I knew to watch out for sand drifts and washed out crossings from when the rivers had run so we set a safe and cautious pace, even giving way to a magnificently large Cape Cobra out for a morning slither.  In fact, I later read on the Namibia travel tips site that, “driving through the Tsaris Pass you should keep in mind that this is one of Namibia’s most densely populated snake areas.’ Definitely, no stopping here for a quick pee behind a bush!

The C19 road to Maltahohe

In the distance, the breathtaking Tsaris reared up from the flat surrounds.  It is by no means the highest pass in Namibia (almost 1900m), but still presents a large and powerful presence that leads you to wondering how old it is, what’s the geology … which is probably why I momentarily forgot the mantra, “gear selection, gear selection, gear selection” as we headed up the steepest incline leading inevitably to my first poor gear selection choice (ie 3^rd to 4^th, instead of 3^rd to 2^nd) which meant we conked out and now I had to face the Tsaris Pass hill start special. 

It took two attempts, I aborted the first attempt when I realised my arm was a bit short to completely release the handbrake and we were just kicking up gravel but got it going on the second attempt.  Glancing in Eric’s direction, I was relieved to see he had yet to develop the wild look of a cornered animal trying to escape, or perhaps he, too, had read the same travel tips site about the number of cranky snakes in the vicinity and decided my driving was the least worse of two lousy options.

We arrived at the clinic around 11.30am.  Locals cover the distance in just under 2 hours.  It took me 2¼ hours which wasn’t too bad, considering.  Amazingly, there were no patients at the clinic so Eric was back at the car within 20 minutes armed with antibiotics and pain killers.  I was feeling quite famished and Eric needed to eat so he could start taking his medication so I thought, well we’ve made pretty good time so let’s go to the other major attraction in Maltahohe, the local hotel.

The Maltahohe Hotel, originally established in 1907, is a fine establishment and looked like it had been renovated since my last visit.  Indeed, a web check revealed it was spruced up in 2004 and is apparently the oldest rural hotel in the country.  The dining room is large and airy furnished with heavy rustic tables and bench seats.  The walls are decorated with an odd assortment of photographs and ancient farming tools.  If I had to describe the overall tone of the space, I’d say it was “musky masculinity”. 

 

  Maltahohe Hotel – no, that is not our vehicle parked out front!

We sat at one of the rustic benches and were the first patrons to arrive for lunch.  There were plenty of people in the bar – sounded like they may have been talking about rugby.  As it seemed no-one had noticed our arrival, I went in search of service which came in the form of a young boy, perhaps 12yo.  We ordered and then I checked my shopping list and decided to ring Niklaus and arrange a pick-up at 1pm.

I had been duly entrusted with the NaDEET cell phone and rang Niklaus.  Now here’s the thing with accents.  Although we were both speaking English – our various Englishes were unrecognisable to each other.  How’s this going to work, I thought.  What if I just say “Agra 1pm”, but no, I also had to tell him to buy some food to bring down with him.  Thankfully, Eric noticed my plight and took over the communications.  All organised – great!

So we settled into our steak sandwiches then set off for Agra arriving at 12.50pm only to find that it closed for an hour at 1pm leaving me 10 minutes to buy 15 bags of cement, convince the Agra staff that despite my extremely suspicious and unrecognisable English, I truly was here on NaDEET business, and load said cement which, of course, involved reversing the bakkie into the despatch door of the cement supply building.

I know what you’re thinking …. But no – aced it in one attempt!  So now just to find Nicklaus who made himself known to us very soon after.  As it turned out, Nicklaus wanted to bring another builder, Rudolph, so after checking in with NaDEET base, we were on the road again with Nicklaus and Rudolph (I whimsically thought there was a bit of a Xmas theme developing here) perched on the cement bags.

We stopped at the petrol station which fortunately was still open where I ran into Piet and Francesca who I had met a few days before in Swakopmund at the Vulture Dinner.  They seemed slightly aghast that I had been entrusted with transporting 3 people and 15 bags of cement and proceeded to give me a long list of Namibian driving do’s and don’ts, most of which I had worked out on the drive up.

After running a Stop sign located in front of the local police station, which fortunately went unnoticed as the population of Maltahohe seems to disappear between the hours of 1-2, we were on our way.  

I managed to get back to NaDEET base without losing Nicklaus or Rudolph or any bags of cement off the back of the ute.

 

Rudolph and Nicklaus

Well, I didn’t manage to get all my gear selections correct, but maybe I was listening afterall during all those 4x4 expeditions across the country with Elinor and Marc and I can hardly wait until the next time I get to practice “gear selection, gear selection, gear selection”.

Until next time, it’s AMO signing off.

 
 

 

Up, up and away ... and back down again

After a few relaxing days in Swakopmund, it was time to get down to work so the day after the Vulture Dinner I caught a ride with Andreas and Viktoria to the Namib Desert Environmental Education Centre (NaDEET) located in the NamibRand Nature Reserve (NRNR) where I’ll be for the next few months.

The six hour trip down was as pleasant and comfortable as you could hope for – interesting and knowledgeable hosts, two lovely children, an air-conditioned car loaded with supplies, an ice-cream and coffee stop at Solitaire.  It was all good.

Now many of you reading this blog will know this is not my first trip to this part of the world, in fact, it’s about my tenth. During the drive down, I was reminded of my first trip to the NRNR with my brother to do a Tok-Tokkie Trail.  The first time, we didn’t drive, we flew, and shall I just say, we arrived with a thud.

Here’s a picture of the plane that almost got us to the NRNR.

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Looks alright?  OK, I would’ve preferred it to have a couple of wheels and be parked on an airstrip but I had it on good authority that the plane had made the trip hundreds of times so who was I to quibble with a few details?

Tony and I and a guide bound for Wolwedans Dune Camp boarded the plane at Windhoek Eros Airport (a bit like Bankstown Airport in Sydney).  Our pilot Shannon took us through a safety briefing where she told us … actually, I don’t remember.  Really, do you ever listen carefully to flight safety briefings?

The single-engine six-seater Cessna then took-off into a crisp, clear, blue Windhoek sky to collect two more passengers who had just arrived from LA and were waiting for us at Windhoek International Airport.  Formalities over, we were ready for the +/- 2 hour flight to the airstrip at Wolwedans where Tony and I were to meet our guide, Elinor, and set off into the Namib Desert for a 3 day walking trial, I mean, trail.

The flight was really quite smooth as it was early in the morning and the desert thermals hadn’t warmed up enough to toss us around like a cork on the ocean.  No-one else having shown interest, I grabbed the best viewing position in the co-pilot’s seat.  About an hour into the flight, just as we were passing over the Namib Naukluft Mountains, a percussive popping noise and a shudder left us to wondering whether this was part of standard operating procedure.  Apparently not, as Shannon coolly advised that whilst she was not at all concerned, she had decided to turn the plane around and follow the road back to Windhoek – just in case.   Just in case?  Just in case of what????  Just in case we have to make an emergency landing, it’s quite easy to land on the road. Oh, is that all!  No problem then.

Next to me, I noticed Shannon was scanning a fold-out map of Namibia whilst attempting to use the radio.  I scanned the controls and thought I noticed that the oil pressure pointer seemed rather low and the engine temperature monitor was, well, rising quite steadily.  OK, I didn’t listen to the safety briefing, but I did OK at physics – not a good combination – we were clearly losing oil and the big fan thing on the front of the fuselage wasn’t there to keep us cool.

Shannon was looking for an alternative landing space because although it is easy to land a Cessna on a road, the drivers in the cars travelling in the opposite direction apparently aren’t always so cheery about giving way to Cessna’s trailing black smoke.

I can’t quite remember how much time we had between the pop, crackle and the inevitable bang, but it was long enough to review every decent, whacky, crappy, suspect, kind, thoughtful, thoughtless, etc decision I’d ever made in my then 38 years but I’m here to tell you it’s true what they say, greeting card writers that is, I never for one moment thought I should’ve spent more time at the office.  But I did fret about how cross my parents would be for taking my youngest brother with me.

To cut a long story short … oh, I’m not going anywhere … you’re getting the long version.

So, as we were still out of radio range with the Windhoek tower, Shannon managed to get a distress message to an SAA flight passing by overhead and advised she was going to attempt an emergency landing at a disused airstrip outside the old mining town of Klein Aub which was about 5 minutes flying time away.

Temporary rock-solid friendships are made quickly in situations like these so I mentioned to Shannon, seeing as I momentarily didn’t have much to do and nowhere to go, could I help her with whatever you do when you are preparing for an emergency landing which were:

(a)   if you are conscious (!@#) when the plane comes to a stop, immediately open the door and get everyone out as quickly as possible (presumably before the plane becomes a great avgas fuelled fireball)

(b)   if there is no fire immediately, check for sign of avgas leaking and if leaking is apparent,  get everyone to run for the hills

(c)    if no fire and no leaks, remove all luggage to a safe distance, get everyone to put on hats and sunscreen then drink as much alcohol as your fellow passengers are prepared to share with you, and

(d)   stay calm at all times as I, being the pilot, find that very reassuring – did I mention this is my first emergency landing?

We descended so we could do an inspection of the old airstrip to make sure it wasn’t full of craters, boulders or large stubborn animals, none of which were apparent, then banked left to come around and land.

Unfortunately, about 2km to the left of the airstrip, I noticed the delicate sheen of perspiration on my forehead had become a torrent of sweat, presumably because the big fan thing at the front of the plane suddenly stopped rotating and we fell like a lump of lead towards the rocky, scrubby ground below.  Just like in the movies, I heard Shannon clearly say, “May day, may day, may day this is flight XX and …..”.  I wonder, is this because the first recorded plane crash happened in the month of May?

The first time we hit the ground, the wheel struts sheered off and I saw one tyre go frolicking ahead on its merry way.  Bit of a jolt, but didn’t seem too bad, really.  

 

  Picture of plane with frolicking tyre in background 

Shannon managed to keep the nose up.  The second time we hit was somewhat more serious and, and for the first time I thought we might actually be in a bit of trouble here.  Despite wearing seatbelts, the G-forces tossed us around like we were weightless dolls.  Any thought of retaining control of body position was ridiculous and after I hit the roof and began to plunge toward the controls, I suddenly remembered that part of the safety briefing which advised any passengers wearing spectacles should remove them prior to crashing.  Ooops!  However, as fate would have it, my plastic, shatter-proof lenses stopped the top of the joystick from punching through my eye socket, and instead the rims of my specs pressed into my face just causing superficial cuts although an amount of unspecified fluid did squirt from my eye which was a bit of a worry but in the end, only amounted to some extremely colourful bruising which lasted for about 6 weeks.

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Photo of bung eye taken next day whilst hiking over a big mountain.

Mournful expression adopted in case of future legal action for damages.

Elsewhere in the cabin, my brother, definitely a person to have on hand in an emergency, grabbed my hair to stop any more face pulping bangs even though his other hand was being mercilessly crushed by Bee, a 60+ co-passenger on her first overseas trip.  A duffle bag flew through the cabin clipping the guide’s head and the pilot sustained a nose injury and some superficial cuts.  Not much of any injury list, considering.

The propeller began to disengage as we bumped along the ground at a literally neck-breaking speed but we came to a stop in an upright position with wings still attached and uncompromised.  Inside the cabin there was – complete silence. 

A few seconds later, we put emergency plans noted above into action, except that my hands were shaking so much I couldn’t get the door open.  Youngest brother just reached over with his good hand and crunched the door open.  C’mon, everybody out, you can collect your luggage later.  Tony and I sniffed around the plane and not smelling any avgas proceeded to remove bags so we could put our hats and sunscreen on and enjoy a sundowner (always travel with a bottle of Scotch, I say)

The End

Well, not quite.  As we sat in the sun sipping our Scotch and hoping the SAA flight had dutifully radioed in our last known position, a vehicle appeared over the horizon.  It was moving slowly and without great purpose probably because it was a cart being hauled by a single donkey.

“”Hark”, I said, “here cometh the ambulance.”  But it was not the ambulance, although the cart driver did give us a hearty hello as he drove by clearly unimpressed by the sight of 6 people sitting on suitcases sipping Scotch in the middle of nowhere next to a broken plane.  Must happen a lot, I guess.

A few minutes later, a bakkie (ute) appeared on the horizon followed by a large group of boys running behind. Aha, this must be the town’s emergency response unit.  But no, it was two Egyptian school teachers who ran a school for wayward youth (I think, “watch your bags” was the first thing they mentioned) followed by, “we saw your plane trailing black smoke so we though we’d better come and collect your bodies and/or bags”.  They had also bought with them some welcome cold cans of lemonade and cola which when mixed with aforementioned Scotch, was very refreshing.

Followed closely behind the arrival of the bakkie came about 30 residents from the town beyond the horizon.  They greeted us warmly, thanked God for our survival, and presented us with a 20 minute concert of astonishingly good gospel music which when added to our Scotch with cold mixers set the scene for a very pleasant afternoon indeed.

Somewhere between the donkey and the arrival of the bakkie, the adrenalin hit me and I proceeded to laugh and cry simultaneously.  However, the confusion was short-lived and having found my emergency pair of travel specs, we were ready to set off in the direction of the town beyond the horizon.

As luck would have it, a replacement plane turned up and landed on the airstrip we had overshot bearing the owner of the airline but no medical staff or medicinal alcohol for that matter. He asked us in a gobsmacked sort of way, what did we want to do, and my adrenalin-fuelled brain promptly advised we wished to proceed apace to our original destination.  Valerie, an LA travel agent scouting for new destinations, agreed so we boarded the replacement Cessna and set off again.

Sometime later we arrived at our destination some 10 hours late.  Elinor, our guide, determined that we were indeed sensible people and would advise her of any unexpected post-crash conditions and drove us up into the mountains where we slept under the stars in preparation for our Tok-Tokkie Trail which involved trekking over a 1200m mountain and across an unspecified number of dunes.  Unbeknown to us, the remaining passengers were sent back to Windhoek to spend a night in hospital for observation.   By that time, we are already out of radio range and preparing to bed down for the night.

    Head injury ward – Namibian style – the service was excellent and the beds comfortable

I remain of the firm belief that the only reason I actually made it through the day’s trek was because of the additional energy supplied by the copious amounts of adrenalin still in my system.

 

Post crash – Day 1 – we summit the mountain under Elinor’s watchful eye

What can I say?  The “plane crash” story remains a great favourite at dinner parties to this day.

The End (again) – bit like a Status Quo song.

(Not quite, there’s still a bit more.)

After the absolutely brilliant time we had at Tok-Tokkie and Wolwedans Dune Camp, we flew back to Windhoek.  My brother was due to fly home but I was going on to Kenya to start a 6 month overland.  Being a sensible person, I sought out an eye specialist just to make sure no deeper damage had occurred.  My brother accompanied me to the appointment, however, upon entering the surgery, they eye specialist insisted Tony leave the room and then asked me did I want to report him for smashing up my face.  Ho hum …

So there it is, the plane crash story.  All future blogs now will concentrate on the present – lots to tell and many pix to show.  Catch you all next time!

Postscript:   Shannon, our pilot, went on to become a commercial passenger pilot for SAA, Bee got her pilot's licence at the age of 68, the guide returned to Germany to get an office job and I'm told travels by train to and from work, Valerie added extreme adventure tours to her agency's portfolio, my brother, after having surviving an elephant charge in Botswana and a plane crash in Namibia in the space of 1 week, returned to Australia and vowed never to travel with me again, and I went on to Kenya and tried a few other flying machines

 Hot air ballooning at Tok Tokkie

 Micro-lighting over Victoria Falls