David Montgomery's Reports

It is a typical Sunday afternoon at Gobabeb. I am boiling a baby seal in the kitchen. Well, at least the skull. Having spent the previous half-hour wrestling it from the rest of the carcass, I’m sweaty, barefoot and shirtless. The roiling milieu of bones and cartilage bounce around the pot to upbeat Namibian music playing on the stereo. The air (and my body) reeks of sea brine and rotting flesh.

Just as the whole process starts to get really exciting, an ominous sound rumbles through the front door. A bus carrying 100 geography students and professors from the University of Namibia pulls through the main gate.

“!”

During my first two months as the Training Coordinator here, I have planned and facilitated a wide variety of programs with schools and universities from across Namibia and around the world. Unfortunately, I’ve also had my fair share of no-shows. No matter what your approach, a trip to Gobabeb covers desolate and poorly maintained gravel roads, and school busses tend to be in terrible condition. When schools do make it, they are usually late. Sometimes very late. In this particular case, after 7 hours of waiting, I thought it safe to assume this group was not coming. Frustrated that I had squandered so much of my day, I proceeded to unleash a hacksaw on the dried mass of blubber I’d been saving for precisely such an occasion.

Unfortunately, now I was one in a bit of a pickle.

You may be wondering how I’d managed to find myself in this position in the first place. Although Gobabeb is located on the shores of the Namib Dune Sea, no sand-swimming pinnipeds are found there. The root of my unlikely story begins with a serious inferiority complex. You see, Gobabebians tend to collect skulls. Researchers wandering about the desert here for the last 50 years have found many. Most are on display: outside (and inside) houses, on desks, within dusty exhibits. One of my coworkers sports a few dozen of them in his office. While most of the skeletal remains are relatively benign, one craniological masterpiece on Nathan’s porch annoyed me to no end. The beautiful sun-bleached gemsbok, complete with meter-long black horns, was a daily reminder one simple and regrettable fact: my porch had no skulls.

There was nothing to do but suffer in embarrassed silence. Apart from the million-dollar view, rocking chair, vegetable garden, extensive rock collection, and goatskin rug bequeathed by past Grinnell Corps Fellows, my porch offered nothing. Nothing! How could I fully cultivate the aesthetic which my developing hobbit feet and growing beard attested to without an epic skull to welcome me home!? I yearned for something monumental (hyena? ostrich?) to spontaneously collapse at my feet.

The supply trips Nathan and I make to the coastal town of Walvis Bay are usually consumed by lists of favors and desired purchases to be made. However, one such expedition a few weeks ago afforded us some time to explore the salt works south of town. One of the largest operations of its type in Africa, the network of retaining pools capture Atlantic sea water and passively concentrate salt through evaporation. During low tide large areas bordering the pools are exposed as mudflats. There, among pink flamingos and foraging jackals, I found it.

Barely recognizable as such, the cape fur seal’s fate was confusing to say the least. Somehow its hide had been turned inside-out, vacuum sealing all but the base of the cranium inside a hardened canvas of skin. Unequivocally disgusting. Yet, I couldn’t walk away. How could anyone resist such an opportunity? The skull was undoubtedly preserved perfectly inside. With a little work the massive canines of this predator’s grin would outshine even the largest of gemsboks horns! I strapped the hulk to the roof with some line and transported the body back to Gobabeb.

A couple of weeks later, there I am, reeking with sweat and decomposing flesh, trying to figure out how to welcome the professors and students exiting the bus. No one else is around to help stave off the group’s impatience. My predicament is complicated by the fact that the majority of my clothes are lying out on a rock by the rest of the carcass, the route to which passes directly in front of the visitors. With no other choices available, I sprint towards my room (casually), trying to avoid eye contact from any onlookers, throw on a fresh set clothes, furiously scrub my hands with soap, and run back over to the main office to greet everyone.

“Welcome to Gobabeb!”

Apparently their first bus had broken down during their descent from Windhoek that morning, and they had to wait to be rescued by another bus before they could continue. In typical Namibian fashion, the mishap had been taken in stride and the students politely listened as I gave a tour of the station’s facilities and explained its role in environmental education, ecological research, and sustainable technology. Only able to stay for an hour, the students had to move on before I was able to impart more than a brief impression (albeit a stinky one). Unsatisfied, I wished them well.

While the experience related above is not overwhelmingly typical of my time at Gobabeb, not many experiences would be. Every day brings distinct challenges, joys, and frustrations. And plenty of all three. Yet, despite living in an extremely small community nearly 2 hours from the nearest town, I’ve never been stimulated and stretched in as many ways.

If one thing is consistent here, it is the jaw-dropping beauty of the Namib. There hasn’t been a day yet where something - whether it be the unbelievably bright milky way, a windblown pattern on the dunes, or an interaction with one of the many elusive creatures - doesn’t make me stop and be incredibly thankful of the opportunity to live in this place - a place so few people have ever gotten to experience so completely. I am already dreading the day I will have to leave. Maybe I won’t (see Ari Anisfeld’s upcoming report...)!

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