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There is a game called "build an animal" that you might have played as a kid-pretty simple, just design the wackiest animal you can think of with all sorts of interesting adaptations and body parts. We ask a similar question of some of our younger training groups here at Gobabeb: If you were an animal in the desert, what adaptations would you want in order to survive? I might not quite qualify as an elementary school student anymore, but here's my answer:
First of all, I would be shaped like a pancake with a huge surface area and fluffy ostrich feathers to release heat and retain moisture. I'd also be able to change color to conserve heat at night and reflect radiation during the day. I'd avoid UV radiation from the sand by running really, really fast to create my own wind and I'd have super iso-enzymes that never denatured no matter how high the temperature. If it became too hot, I'd be able to swim down under the sand to the cooler depths. While resting, I would fill my tissues with urine so that water actually flowed into my body instead of out and horde the water by only exhaling unsaturated air. That of course would just be for kicks, since I would be able to lose at least half of my body water without dying and drink half of my body weight at one time to make up the difference. I'd let my body heat up to lethal levels while keeping my brain from cooking using blood vessels in my nose. And I would definitely have deadly scorpion venom to use
copiously during grouchy moments.
So…a multi-colored, sand-swimming, urine-filled, venom-squirting pancake? A bit implausible, but all of those adaptations do exist in the animals you can find in the Namib Desert. Since I've arrived here, I think I've used the phrase "that is SO COOL!!!" a few thousand times. (Actually, I led a nature walk for an English engineer a few weeks ago, who finally informed me rather tartly that, "Young lady, there is absolutely nothing 'cool' about the desert at this hour. Are you mad?" Strike two came a little later when he found out that I thought "croquet" was the same thing as "crochet"-his eyes almost popped out of his head in a fit of apoplexy.) In all seriousness, though, the adaptations here in this super-arid environment continually amaze me. And there are creatures all over the place if you look past the initial, seemingly endless barrenness. The multitudes of fresh tracks crisscrossing the dunes in the morning before the wind sweeps them away resemble the busyness of shopping malls in December
more than empty piles of sand. I visited the lichen fields to the west of Gobabeb with organic layers so thick that accidentally stepping off the inches wide path left visible footprints and sounded like crunching through Rice Krispies cereal. Just incredible. The exposure to such unique ecosystems and organisms alone makes up for any tribulations that come with the job.
Speaking of tribulations (closer to full-fledged panic), I recently sent Sarah Evans an email looking for some insight or potential salvation for running a ten-day MSc Biology course scheduled for mid-August. Sarah ran the last MSc course here in 2005, and I figured she must have perspective on how a recent Grinnell graduate could meaningfully work with a bunch of Namibian Master's students-I mean, she survived, didn't she? Maybe I should rig the supposed biblical "burning bush" (Mustard Tree or Salvadora persica for the scientifically minded) we find here in the riverbed to spontaneously burst into flame upon command? Would that get their attention?
I consider Sarah's response to be one of the best pieces of advice I've received since arriving here at Gobabeb-yes, of course you can depend on the support of other Gobabebians and past Fellows. Yes, of course it's intimidating. But to be blunt, in the end you take a deep breath, suck it up and step up. Based on two months here, I think this could become a common theme throughout my year in Namibia. What a wonderful maxim to incorporate into everyday life-chuck the excuses and just step up.
The vast majority of student groups schedule courses between July and November. With up to four groups in one week and education levels ranging between primary and Masters, the first few months of the TOAS position are busy. The expectation to prepare and lead courses immediately upon arrival here is daunting, but on the positive side forces you to learn quickly. For the first primary group scheduled during my time here, I planned out their day to the minute and anxiously peeked out at the front gate every 30 seconds starting about 2 hours before their scheduled arrival, much to the amusement of other staff. Around 2pm, I found out that they had randomly decided to go somewhere else. Normal, a staff member informed me with a shrug-apparently, I decided, my anal personality needs some readjustment here.
Between running courses, working on training modules, coordinating the intern program, organizing the inception of a weekly newspaper column in the Namibian and various other station duties, I am very happy to find that I never lack work. I appreciate the fact that I am never bored and never feel superfluous. On the other hand, I struggle with spending so much time in an office. Most days find me sitting in front of a computer for 8-10 hours, which I did not anticipate. I know the deskwork will be interspersed throughout the year with training courses, and I might be able to do more outdoor work once I become better oriented, but spending so much time inside can be demoralizing. I think some of my personal frustration stems from the fact that I'm working at a research station but not really doing research. I willingly chose the training side of things, and I have zero regrets, but it's still difficult at times.
A few weeks ago I attended a memorial service for a local Topnaar man at Soutrivier, the closest Topnaar community. One of our staff members said the community might appreciate having Gobabebians pay respect since we work and interact closely. The Topnaars have lived semi-nomadically in the Namib Desert since the 1600s, and recently settled in small communities along the Kuiseb River. They have a unique, melodious language filled with clicking sounds. In the Topnaar tradition when someone dies, everyone gathers around a fire and spends the entire night singing and praying until the burial at sunrise. So I found myself sitting around a fire with about 30 Topnaar individuals, watching everyone singing and harmonizing and talking and sitting silently and laughing and grieving in the most unstructured amazing kind of a way. It really reiterated to me the power of simple song and harmony. My description does not do it justice, or the many mixed emotions I had being the only white person present and feeling
halfway like I was being respectful and halfway like I was intruding.
I doubt I will ever tire of waking up to see the sunrise over the gravel plains in the east and the dunes silhouetted in the new light to the south. I particularly enjoy the isolation, about which I was initially somewhat apprehensive. The lack of cell phones and cable television and cars coming and going honestly makes me ecstatic. Before leaving the States, I delighted in putting a voicemail message on my cell phone saying "Sorry, I won't be checking this phone or returning your call for the next year." I especially like to stop a few kilometers out during my runs and hear the silence ring in my ears, broken only by the occasional giggle of a barking gecko. Checking through some old emails, I found a message I sent to my parents a few days after I arrived at Gobabeb which contained the following description: "I've decided that I've stumbled upon a little piece of paradise here-albeit a somewhat dysfunctional, stressful and kooky piece of paradise." Nine weeks later, this holds true. I won't lie, this
job can be challenging, but the close community here, eclectic and interesting duties, overall goals of the station, and of course the sand dunes more than make up for any difficulties.
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