Bo Bigelow's Blog - Posts Tagged "namibia"
George
In October 2002, my girlfriend and I traveled by car to Ai-Ais, a hot springs resort in Namibia. She drove. The stop at the hot springs was midway through a long trek, beginning in Cape Town, South Africa, up to Etosha National Park in northern Namibia, and back to Cape Town. Over the two-week trip, there were multiple days of driving for 14 hours straight. I couldn't tell you how many total miles or kilometers we drove; if you try to look up driving directions from Cape Town to Etosha, Google Maps doesn't know what the hell to do.
Now, nearly ten years later, the woman I traveled with is my wife. We refer often to that trip. The place we mention more than any other is Ai-Ais.
We don't call it Ai-Ais, though. That's mostly because we had no clue how to pronounce it when we went there. Was it "aye-ayes," like the plural of a first mate's affirmative? Or was it "eye-ice"? (Turns out it's the latter.) We'd found it in a guidebook, located it on a map over several beers while still near Cape Town, and resolved to do whatever it took to get there on our way to Etosha. Not knowing what to call it, we called it George.
The name Ai-Ais is from the Nama language and means "burning water." I believe, however, that those Nama words have a second, lesser-known meaning, which is, "Enjoy the hot springs all you like, but we don't sell any food here, so you'll have to scrounge whatever you can from under the seats of your car." Despite calling itself a "resort," Ai-Ais offered nothing to eat, nor did it have a grocery store or so much as a cafe. In fact, we hadn't seen any food at all since entering Namibia 75 miles and two hours earlier. If you try to look up "Middle of Nowhere," there'll be a picture of us, in a purple Honda Jazz, under the vast Namibian sky. The roads we'd traveled from Namibia's border with South Africa weren't so much dirt as rock, made up of fist-sized rocks that I was sure would destroy our tiny purple Jazz. We saw nary another car, person, gas station, or even any animals.
Nor could we ask anyone where to buy food. Almost no one we met spoke English. The South Africa-Namibia border guard, for example, knew virtually no English words. Nevertheless, when he saw my passport, he laughed an echoing, full-teeth laugh. "Bigalow?" he cried. "Deuce Bigalow? Haha!" The movie "Deuce Bigalow" had come out in 1999, and everyone on the planet--including border guards in Namibia--had seen it, found it hilarious, and associated it with me, even though I spell my name differently. That Rob Schneider! Curse his oily hide!
I cannot stress enough how extremely hungry we were during this phase of the trip. In our house, the phrase "Fish River Canyon" has become an adjective, signifying a state of hunger that not only renders impossible any physical activity, speech, or simple decision-making, but goes well beyond that, making you hopeless and sort of wanting to die. It's a dangerous condition. And we were in precisely that condition ten years ago, gazing into nearby Fish River Canyon, which is bigger than the Grand Canyon. If you try to look up "Fish River Canyon," I'm sure you'll find inspiring pictures, with majestic plateaus and buttes and so forth. But my wife and I confessed to each other hours later that we'd been so hungry looking down into the canyon that the only thing we kept thinking of was hurling ourselves into it.
Thus, immediately upon our arrival in Ai-Ais and discovery that it was foodless, the meal of George was born. It signifies an impromptu meal, derived from whatever happens to be around at the time. But to be clear: it is not simply leftovers.
There are two simple rules of George:
Rule 1: Silverware and dishes are optional but discouraged. Eat with fingers, on a napkin. It honestly makes the food taste better somehow.
Rule 2: No cooking, by any heat source, including microwaves. It's a series of small bites, really, and they're one hundred percent raw: bread, cheese, some dried meat if you have it--we had some biltong, which is basically African beef jerky--and it's also good to have a bit of fruit. As I recall, we managed to unearth some softened clementines and a passion fruit from the bottom of a backpack. You can improve your George experience by enjoying it on a table, rather than on the bedspread of a hotel room.
If you try to look up George, you'll find nothing about the impromptu meal. But I'm hoping it'll catch on.
Now, nearly ten years later, the woman I traveled with is my wife. We refer often to that trip. The place we mention more than any other is Ai-Ais.
We don't call it Ai-Ais, though. That's mostly because we had no clue how to pronounce it when we went there. Was it "aye-ayes," like the plural of a first mate's affirmative? Or was it "eye-ice"? (Turns out it's the latter.) We'd found it in a guidebook, located it on a map over several beers while still near Cape Town, and resolved to do whatever it took to get there on our way to Etosha. Not knowing what to call it, we called it George.
The name Ai-Ais is from the Nama language and means "burning water." I believe, however, that those Nama words have a second, lesser-known meaning, which is, "Enjoy the hot springs all you like, but we don't sell any food here, so you'll have to scrounge whatever you can from under the seats of your car." Despite calling itself a "resort," Ai-Ais offered nothing to eat, nor did it have a grocery store or so much as a cafe. In fact, we hadn't seen any food at all since entering Namibia 75 miles and two hours earlier. If you try to look up "Middle of Nowhere," there'll be a picture of us, in a purple Honda Jazz, under the vast Namibian sky. The roads we'd traveled from Namibia's border with South Africa weren't so much dirt as rock, made up of fist-sized rocks that I was sure would destroy our tiny purple Jazz. We saw nary another car, person, gas station, or even any animals.
Nor could we ask anyone where to buy food. Almost no one we met spoke English. The South Africa-Namibia border guard, for example, knew virtually no English words. Nevertheless, when he saw my passport, he laughed an echoing, full-teeth laugh. "Bigalow?" he cried. "Deuce Bigalow? Haha!" The movie "Deuce Bigalow" had come out in 1999, and everyone on the planet--including border guards in Namibia--had seen it, found it hilarious, and associated it with me, even though I spell my name differently. That Rob Schneider! Curse his oily hide!
I cannot stress enough how extremely hungry we were during this phase of the trip. In our house, the phrase "Fish River Canyon" has become an adjective, signifying a state of hunger that not only renders impossible any physical activity, speech, or simple decision-making, but goes well beyond that, making you hopeless and sort of wanting to die. It's a dangerous condition. And we were in precisely that condition ten years ago, gazing into nearby Fish River Canyon, which is bigger than the Grand Canyon. If you try to look up "Fish River Canyon," I'm sure you'll find inspiring pictures, with majestic plateaus and buttes and so forth. But my wife and I confessed to each other hours later that we'd been so hungry looking down into the canyon that the only thing we kept thinking of was hurling ourselves into it.
Thus, immediately upon our arrival in Ai-Ais and discovery that it was foodless, the meal of George was born. It signifies an impromptu meal, derived from whatever happens to be around at the time. But to be clear: it is not simply leftovers.
There are two simple rules of George:
Rule 1: Silverware and dishes are optional but discouraged. Eat with fingers, on a napkin. It honestly makes the food taste better somehow.
Rule 2: No cooking, by any heat source, including microwaves. It's a series of small bites, really, and they're one hundred percent raw: bread, cheese, some dried meat if you have it--we had some biltong, which is basically African beef jerky--and it's also good to have a bit of fruit. As I recall, we managed to unearth some softened clementines and a passion fruit from the bottom of a backpack. You can improve your George experience by enjoying it on a table, rather than on the bedspread of a hotel room.
If you try to look up George, you'll find nothing about the impromptu meal. But I'm hoping it'll catch on.
