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From Germany with Love: Namibia’s Oldest Dough(nut)

Marie — Wed, 25 Oct 2023 14:31:38 +0000

What is almost 150 years old and young as a new day?

Let me explain.

Imagine you do what tourists do in Swakopmund, Namibia – you take a stroll on the famous wave-kissed Jetty. At the beginning of the historical wooden pier you stumble over a small café called “1877 Doughnut Bar”.

You usually don’t eat sugar but you are a foodie, and curious by nature. So you comply to your exception week and indulge in a yummy looking specimen, say a huge salted caramel cream and coconut whopper of a doughnut (let’s just stay with the British spelling here).

You enjoy that it is not as uber-sweet and greasy as the usual suspects, and that everything is home-made, from the dough to the cream to the sauce.

The doughnut is fluffy on the inside and crispy on the outside. The whole thing tastes super fresh and quite unique. It has a very fine aroma to it that you can’t quite put your finger on. It is the same enticing flavor that already greets your nose in the morning when you pass the café while they are baking.

Everything is as it should be in a happy doughnut world.

Then Karen, the German owner of the café, tells you that you are just sinking your teeth into a dough that has existed for about 150 years.

“Cool,” you say, “now that’s an old recipe!”

“Ähm,” she replies, “you didn’t quite understand: It’s a sourdough, and the dough itself has existed for nearly 150 years.”

“What do you mean?” you ask a slight bit incredulously.

“Well,” she smiles, “this very sourdough has been around since 1877. It has literally existed since then–not just as the recipe but as the physical thing. And it also has a strong personality.”

Wow! Wut??

Now I need to know everything about this oldie with attitude.

There is a whole story behind it, actually.

Cut to the second half of the 19^th century. What is known today as Namibia – which got its current name after independence from South Africa in 1990 – was occupied by the Germans from 1884. They had established “German South West Africa” as their colony in order to stand against the expansion of the British Empire.

By that time, Karen’s great-grandfather Albert Ferdinand Kaiser was feeling bored in his office job in Germany. An adventurer at heart, he longed to see new things and live a life outside of the cubicle (yes, that already was a thing more than 130 years ago ! He was basically the Godfather of digital nomadism, just a bit more… analog).

When he saw that the military was looking for volunteers for the so-called Schutztruppe (“protection force”) in “German South West”, he legged it, enrolled, and soon after set foot in what is now the charming seaside city of Swakopmund.

A member of the “Schutztruppe”. This is how Albert Ferdinand might have looked like

(image source: Borchert family)

At that time there were only settlements in the area, no cities yet. So the first house he built was local style: wooden pales plastered with clay on the inside and pig droppings on the outside.

This lifestyle was not deemed suitable for white ladies back then, so there were almost no German women around at that time. Accordingly, Albert Ferdinand’s wife Gertrud had stayed back home in Germany–surprisingly, this worked out even without WhatsApp and FaceTime.

After some years the settlement had turned into a Europeanized small town, and Swakopmund’s official city status was declared in 1892.

Swakopmund in 1900, already a small town, and the famous Jetty (image source: Peter’s Antiques, Swakopmund)

It was a slow process, as basically all building materials were imported from Europe. This meant not only waiting months on end for a glass window or a door to get shipped but also battling to get it when it arrived, as the demand was bigger than the supply–imagine scenes in front of an iStore when a new iPhone is released.

Image source: Peter’s Antiques, Swakopmund

When Albert Ferdinand was thoroughly settled, it was time for Gertrud to finally join him. Back in the day, a woman was not supposed to travel alone.

This is why Gertrud was accompanied by her resolute aunt Irene, who was also quite adventurous and, most importantly, helped Gertrud with a very special mission.

Gertrud and her children in later years (image source: Borchert family)

Put in a (dough)nutshell: Had it not been for Gertrud and Irene, none of us would be able to enjoy those fluffy doughnuts on the Swakopmund Jetty today.

In 1877, Irene had started the sourdough that would survive her for generations. The two emigrating women had been using that very dough in Germany, as it was the baking method back in the day and got passed on from mothers to daughters. They thus decided to take it with them on the passage. And the rest is history.

How they managed to keep the sourdough alive during the long months of the sea journey remains their secret (more on nurturing the dough later on).

Maybe they were making friends with the kitchen staff and thus able to keep it going. Maybe they even allocated a part to the ship’s cooks so they could bake fresh bread while on board.

We will never know. But the important part is: The ladies and the dough made it alive!

Little did Irene and Gertrud know that their efforts would turn into a “flour”ishing baking business more than a century later.

The two women stepped on land right next to the current Jetty, and Gertrud was finally reunited with her beloved Albert Ferdinand.

The Jetty at Gertrud’s time and now, with her great-granddaughter’s café (left image source: Peter’s Antiques, Swakopmund)

Over the next generations, the sourdough became the star of the family. It was kept alive and bubbling by Karen’s great-grandmother (i.e. Gertrud), grandmother, and mother. Today it is Karen and her family who keep it juicy, so that it may also make it through the next centuries.

This generational baking would have remained a family affair, had not Terence, Karen’s son, complained one day that there were no decent doughnuts to be had in Namibia. Either they were too greasy or too sweet, or just not tasty.

Clearly a case for Captain Obvious: “Let’s use our rock star dough to make doughnuts and sell them in Swakopmund!”

They started experimenting and were soon satisfied with the results. Karen has a background in gourmet cooking, so from the start they used high quality ingredients, which makes the doughnuts stand out even more.

Karen inspecting the sourdough and being happy about the result

The search for a location proved to be quite rough. It was impossible to find a space in downtown Swakopmund, which comprises only about two blocks of gastronomical action.

Then fate had a last twist in store, again quite literally. There was exactly one empty store available… right on the very Jetty next to which Gertrud and Irene had landed more than 130 years ago!

Karen fought hard to get this space. With so much ancestral power behind her, she could not but succeed, of course.

Thus, in September 2021, Karen and her husband André opened the 1877 Doughnut Bar on the very same spot where the dough had wobbled its way ashore in days of yore.

Can’t beat the view of the 1877!

For the first time in the dough’s long tradition, men became involved in the knead-deep business. Terence, who had studied marketing and psychology, learned how to bake bread and is now working full time at the 1877 Doughnut Bar. André, owner of a gym/boxing center, became the social media manager and started helping out in the café when high season saw long queues full of tourists and locals.

Terence cutting and placing the soon-to-be-fluffy ones

So what about the dough’s personality, then? In short: It makes Liz Taylor seem like the easiest-going person in history.

Remember the fairy tale of the princess and the pea? That’s your sourdough!

As opposed to pure yeast dough, the sour cousin is running a strict zero tolerance policy. The slightest bit of draught? Too hot? Too arid because of the East wind from the Namib desert? Any of this, and you will get elephant’s feet instead of airy fairies.

Big bubbles first, then the guys need some rest

The golden rule is: the more, the fluffier–the more you tend to the diva, the heavenlier the sourdough. Once a week is the absolute minimum, comparable to an oil change for your car. If you want to not only keep the sourdough forever young but also nice and delicate, you really gotta ramp things up and nurture and feed it every. Single. Day.

And what exactly does it mean to nurture it?

Well, your Royal Doughness is quite into spanking: You add sugar, water, flour, and then you beat it with a big muddler like your life depends on it.

And then, some more workout.

By 2023, this very dough has thus been fed for almost 55.000 days in a row. Gotta beat that!

Just feed it (feed it), beat it (beat it), we all wanna go and eat it 🎵

Um, but what about holidays?, you may ask. Does the family have a dough sitter when they go on vacation? How dare you think that! The 1877 sourdough is, of course, a family member. It enjoys the holiday in a little dish, just like back in the days on that ship from Germany.

One of the 1877 team’s secrets is the water. Tap water in Namibia has a rather distinct goût de chlorine, so special water does the trick.

‘Tis like with all good food: the better the ingredients, the better the result.

The 1877 sourdoughnut is lighter in color than other sourdough pastry, and, as mentioned, has quite a filigree taste.

Step one, step two, step three – all of it hand-made!

The original ingredients/starter cultures that Irene created it with have been lost in time like tears in rain. Which means we will never know the real secret behind it. Maybe that is a sweet thing, though, as the old chap thus remains a magical mystery dough.

You might even argue that the “information” which was put into the dough when Irene started it in 1877 is still there in a veeeery high potency. Which makes the doughnuts an effective homeopathic remedy against those grey and foggy Swakop Sundays.

So–what will the future hold? Needless to say, the family companion is in it for the long game. More of an ultra runner than a sprinter.

After only one year, the sourdoughnuts from the Swakop Jetty had turned into a cult already. People from all over the country demand of those who vacay in Swakop to bring them a good portion of the doughnuts upon returning, OR ELSE!!

So chances are there will be an expansion. Maybe a second location, as the current one is super small, and during packedy-packed high season in December, 7 people try to not constantly stumble over each other in the tiny kitchen.

For Karen and her family, this place is too emotional to give up: “We will not abandon our first location on the Jetty, as history has come to a full circle here, and we want to cherish this bond between our family past and present.”

So if you visit lovely Swakopmund, make sure you say hi to Karen and her family on the Jetty. And don’t forget to indulge in one of those beauties, like a Marshmallow Fuse Bomb, Passion Fruit Chili or Peanut Fudge Popcorn doughnut – or any other traditional German home-baked delicacy, for that matter.

One thing is for sure: You’ll be munching a true piece of history!

You can check out the 1877 team on Instagram, Facebook, and their website.

Disclaimer: This is not a paid advertorial – I did not receive any dough or doughnuts for this blogpost, and the links are not affiliate links. I just liked the story and (as an exception from my being sugar-free) the doughnuts, that’s all.

The post From Germany with Love: Namibia’s Oldest Dough(nut) appeared first on free like marie!.

Travel, Travel, Grief: The Year Review I Wish I Never Had to Write

Marie — Tue, 17 Jan 2023 11:42:24 +0000

How do you cope with grief while traveling?

Just like around the same time last year, I wanted to write a review of the year that had just passed, in this case, covid-war-energy-crisis-ridden 2022.

Optimistically, I had intended to rave about my having taken up traveling again – after two years of pandemic-induced micro-only traveling at home in Germany.

What would I have written about?

For one, my six months in Namibia: stunning deserted landscapes God wanted to show off with; bucket list destinations like the famous Deadvlei; a country that time-capsuled its colonial German history and now lives in a weird version of a German-dom that no longer exists in the original country itself; and so much more.

(You can find a post about my solo camping in the Namibian desert here.)

I had planned to recount how Swakopmund became one of my happy places, despite having the reputation of being the old age home of Namibia (I’m a digital oldmad, so maybe this was a match made in heaven?).

Next, South Africa. I would have shared why my first months in Cape Town were, mildly speaking, quite challenging. And how the Mother City cost me more time to warm up to than all places I have ever been before.

That said, I would have also mentioned how stunning South Africa’s nature is, with the Fynbos having jumped right into my top 5 vegetations.

But sometimes life has its own ways and takes a turn you would never have dreamed of. Or rather, nightmared of.

Expect the Unexpected

When I had already begun to write the 2022 review, in the last mile of this gloom-meets-doom weirdo of a year, my life partner back in Germany suddenly left this incarnation on December 21.

I found myself alone in Cape Town. And alone in life.

When your spouse dies, you are widowed. Is there even a name for when you lose your partner but were not married? There isn’t, so maybe let’s just call it “lost”.

One day before Christmas Eve I called the police because I was not able to reach my partner Andreas via Messenger or phone.

We had been on a video call shortly before (we called each other every day, sometimes more than once), and he had had an infection of some kind.

When I did not hear from him I felt a terrible fear. Some hours later, the police called me back and confirmed that fear (the waiting was unbearable, and when the call came, I knew what they would tell me).

Andreas was 61, and about to sell his business – after working hard for decades, taking care of his old-aged mum until she died, and some unpleasant things that had tied him to the place.

He had planned to sell all his belongings, learn to sail, buy a sailboat, and sail the world. An adventure I was meant and couldn’t wait to join him on.

I was so happy for him that he would finally break free from everything that weighed heavy on him. But apparently, those long years had accumulated a toll. And on the 9.999th step of the 10k stairs, he was called to a different sailing ground – hopefully one where the winds are fair and the sun always shines.

Hole in my side

The grief was and is beyond words. He was my rock, my best buddy, my confidant, my quirk sharer, my ally. My home. We supported each other through the everyday and gifted each other a reassuring and loving presence.

It felt like there was a big gap or hole in my side, as if a part of me just had been ripped out. And there was not only the emotional aspect, which already seemed unbearable.

Not having been married, my status went down to zero – zero right of decision (e.g. about his funeral), zero access (e.g. to his house, where my keys and lots of other personal things were), zero entitlement (e.g. to any of his legacy, and yep, it would have made me financially free).

He had fought a bitter legal war with his ex wife and children for 8 years, having no contact with the family whatsoever. And now it was them who had “access all areas”.

I was outside, even though I was the only human being who was close to him. And he would have rather died (ok, bad metaphor) than have them rummage through and inherit all that he left behind.

But like they say, where there is a will, there is a way. No will, no way. And he had been procrastinating writing his – for too long, obviously.

I wondered what to do now. Going back to Germany would have meant that I would not have been able to do or decide anything whatsoever. Just to sit at home and grieve, and be reminded of all the many places we visited together. Not a great perspective.

So I just stayed in Cape Town, and took a not so brief grief time-out. Since it was Xmas, everyone stayed with their families. I stayed with my bed and my memories.

And in between, I wrote. Poems, mostly:

Merciful escape

Sleep, in the face of death,

is the sweetest

of no longer sweet things

Not having to think

Not having to remember

Only giving power to dreams

to nothing else

Tomorrow is a new day!

Um, actually,

no new days for the moment, please, thank you

Can I just step outside of time

for a little dark age

and rejoin

when the pain

is down to “yes, I can…

tolerate to be awake” again?

My landlady Lynette, the sweet soul, arranged that the priest of her Anglican community should give me a call, which I thought was really nice. And the priest dedicated a lot of time in between his busy schedule to listening to and comforting me.

Lynette also took me to Midnight Mass on Christmas Eve so that I might be uplifted by the energy of the congregation.

That did not really work out, but at least it provided some distraction. And the priest made puns with 80s music in his sermon, which was pretty impressive for a Xmas service.

Grieving from afar

Grief while traveling is different. In a way, being 12k kilometers from the usual surroundings helped to cope at least a little bit.

In Germany, it was dark, cold, wet, windy, heavy, and full of currently painful memories. In South Africa, I could sit on a bench and feel the sun and the warm breeze. I could discover new things that were neutral to me, not tinged with time-spent-together spots at every corner.

It also helped that I received a wave of love, sympathy, and compassion from all friends I had told about the turn of events. People near and far, close and not so close, were sharing my suffering, giving me comfort, saying important things that brought some relief.

(I will write a more detailed post about the things that helped me overcome my grief while traveling and link it here later on).

Given that recent turn of events, all those nice (and not so nice) travel moments of the last months faded away into meaninglessness.

And it was certainly the most difficult Christmas and New Year that I ever lived through.

There is Always a Lesson in Grief

Like last year, one of my goals for 2023 is more consistency. I will eventually write more about my time in Namibia and South Africa.

But for now, grief, who snuck in like a stealth assassin in the last throes of 2022, has taken over and put its stamp on the year, dominating my (re)view, and casting a long shadow for the months to come.

I want to finish this post on a lighter note, though. Why? Because I was reminded of something important by these events (luckily enough, we parted lovingly on our very last video call, but this still struck me, as things might have been different):

We often get caught up in the everyday. We are in a rush, so we don’t kiss our loved ones goodbye. We forget to tell those close to our heart what they mean to us.

So please tell your loved ones that you love them – every single day. Be it your partner, kids, parents, family, or friends. Do not walk out of a phone call without telling them. Stay in the love and thankfulness and let them know. Never take anything for granted.

If you argue, never go to bed without reconciling and telling them you love them despite your disagreements.

Let us all be more outspokenly loving. Because you never know if the person you just talked to (or yourself, for that matter) is still alive 15 minutes later.

I will start by saying to all of you who are in my little universe: thank you for being here, and I love you all!

Be blessed 🙏🏼

And to my sweet Andreas: Godspeed, and my love will always be with you. ⛵

hello

Plushies by Sigikid^®

The post Travel, Travel, Grief: The Year Review I Wish I Never Had to Write appeared first on free like marie!.

Intrinsically in Transit

Marie — Wed, 31 Aug 2022 14:22:55 +0000

Intrinsically

transit

sic transit

gloria mundi

sick transit

thru a disheartened

Atlantic

Atlassian by nature

and Lost in

Trancelation

from the echo chambers

of trauma

to the wondrous miraculousness

of transitional

bliss

and while they

hiss

you

miss

the transitory light-

ness of seeing

what is fleeting

under

the

glitter benevolent

of waves

hello

The post Intrinsically in Transit appeared first on free like marie!.

Solo Camping in Namibia 1: Silent Night Under the Milky Way

Marie — Thu, 07 Jul 2022 20:04:50 +0000

How will I cope with driving a huuuge 4×4 for the first time – including driving on the left, with the steering wheel on the opposite side of what I’m used to? And how will that feel in the busy traffic of Windhoek?

How will it work out to be solo camping in the Namibian desert… as a non-camper?

How do I pee when I’m sleeping in a roof tent and wake up in the middle of the night with “the urge”?

How will I manage to change a flat tire (Namibian national sport) when all alone on some lonesome road in the middle of nowhere, without any signal and any biceps?

How will I be able to get up before sunrise every morning when I already struggle to get out of bed around 9 am?

a

like

“anxious like marie!”, more fittingly.

Those are some of the questions that keep me wide awake every night before my 8 day trip to southern Namibia. Yay for travel anxiety!

I have been a bit stressed-out-sleepless, anyway, so this just adds to my nightly “somersaulting monkey teams up with Duracell bunny” brain.

Thus I start the trip with a sleep deficit as big as Alphaville in Japan.

I usually like to travel without much planning, but in this case – sometimes a campsite being the only accommodation around for miles – it seemed wiser to book everything in advance.

This goes especially for Sesriem where you want to be inside the gate (only 2 campsites are). Why? Because you then get to go to the famous Sossusvlei/Deadvlei earlier than those in the cheap rows (i.e. outside the park).

On the unbright side, this means to rise and shine at 4 am, which is reeeeaaally stressing me out big time before the trip. The anxiety is real.

At least I am so lucky as to find the best car rental company ever, Classic Car Rental.

Peter is the most patient and nice rental owner of all times and gives me a thorough introduction to my future partner in crime, a Toyota Hilux (this one in the pics has just been returned, that’s why it’s still dirty.)

Peter in action. So I will have to climb on the tires to put up that tent? Mmmk.

A camping girl’s best friends.

After the intro and a little test drive I am not really less scared. It is a biiiig car, and I decide to baptize mine to the name of Betsy. Betsy the Beast. Or should I have gone with Betty Beep instead?

I only learn much later that Betsy is a TV star, driving her heart out in a German TV documentary. So one of us is famous already.

Betsy earlier on TV and later with me.

During the test drive I nearly ram a curb stone edge because all I see is the hood – I cannot even see the street due to those monstrous dimensions.

Betsy’s cousin. Adding to the size factor is the wheel on the other than my habitual side, which means that all levers and gears are mirror-inverted.

Betsy’s cousin. Adding to the size factor is the wheel on the other than my habitual side, which means that all levers and gears are mirror-inverted, from my German perspective.

This is going to be quite a challenge. I love challenges. Bring’em on!

So finally the big day is here. Peter has arranged that I can pick up Betsy the night before, which means that I am able to avoid busybusy traffic. Phew.

I drive with utmost caution. The drivers behind me are so happy about this that they show their appreciation by honking wildly. Every time I want to set the turn signal, the windshield wipers start their shtick. The gears also being mirror-inverted make for some brain acrobatics but they are easier to get used to than the other “wrong side” levers.

When I get to my place safe and sound, I am already relieved and thinking, this is doable. So much for useless fears and worries.

Before – after.

I park Betsy in the garage of my place with major fine-tuning: There are literally two centimeters left between the walls/gate and the car, back AND front.

If it fits, I sits.

The packing takes a bit longer than I thought – I have bought 5 5-liter/1.32-gallon bottles of water and food for about 48 weeks so the big toploader fridge inside the car is crammed (very practical if you want to get something from the bottom).

Betsy’s cousin boasting her fridge, which is basically taking up half of the trunk.

Unfortunately I am so busy with getting everything right that I totally forget to take pics and vids and document the whole thing. Still a long way to Influencerary, I guess.

But then I AM ON THE ROAD, BABY! Yeeeeehaaaaawww!

Finally some freedom after feeling trapped inside those Windhoek walls for a while.

Windhoek rush hour, and then… ride like an eagle, Betsy!

Going South

I am looking forward to my first goal: Tropic of Capricorn. In Oman I already stumbled across the Tropic of Cancer sign, and for some reason crossing those geographical (and in this case astronomical) landmarks takes on an almost mythical dimension for me.

I can’t really put it in words but somehow it reconnects me to travel of old and also to the fabric and the makings of the universe, if this makes sense (probably not).

Betsy at the tropic, still squeaky clean. Not for long, Betsy, not for long.

Yes, I made it a point to wear the same blouse. Hoping for a tropic series, of course.

About 137 Capricorn selfies later I head off south. Now I understand why people have warned me about the monotonous driving in Namibia, aka hours… zzzz… on end… srnnk… with the ever-same landscape… zzz… huh?

One of the most typical views in Nam (at least in certain regions)

In Mariental I make my first acquaintance with a thing from outer space, which makes cockroaches look pretty pale in comparison.

Oh, well thank you for the nice welc… what is this??? It’s almost as big as my hand! 😱

The encounter of the third kind proves to be an armoured ground cricket, and if I think this was a rare meet and greet, I’m up for a surprise (more in part 2 of this blogpost soon).

That said, I do find them quite beautiful. Until I imagine they crawl up to my tent and say hi at 3 am. Um, let’s rather drive on!

Jesus lives… in Maltahöhe

Going Gravel

After Maltahöhe I hit the gravel for the first time. And with it, the dust.

Dusty Springfield approves. If a big, fast & furious car passes, the next 10 seconds are mystery driving.

Once-in-ten-years-rain has graced Namibia, so there is grass all over the place. And as always the iconic weaver bird nests.

The drive is still somewhat monotonous. Even more so as Betsy has an mp3 player but I forgot my music USB stick at home. I try to find a radio station. There is only one called WhiteNoise FM.

In most parts (i.e. 90 % of Namibia), there is not even a cell signal, and if you think about it it does make sense. Springboks and zebras hate typing messages for obvious reasons, and from what I heard they are not into TikTok, either.

The drive thus becomes quite zen – not much to see, not much to hear. You could always talk to your inner child or sing, but I choose to just be silent.

Drive on, nothing to see here!

All of a sudden, the C19 leads downhill, and the landscape switches into spectacular mode. The awe starts, and mightily so! There are new views after every bend.

Fibonacci was here.

The weaver birds’ nests are getting bigger by the minute.

I am getting to know new street signs, and the temperatures are rising as I approach the desert.

While Kudus might be crossing, Marie is sweaty but happy.

Namibia, I learn, is THE country for introverts who are not overly keen on other peeps within a 200-mile radius.

Little farm on the prairie.

The vistas! The colors! The flora! If I keep stopping the car every 30 seconds to get a photo I will reach tonight’s destination in about 14 days. Awesomeness overload, pls haaaalp!!

That said, every photo stop means sliding and gliding out of the car – monster truck high clearance makes that smallies like me just cannot get out in the usual way. And then you have to climb your way back in, of course. Pure exercise! As they say, 500 photo stops a day keep the doctor away.

Apparently all of this is much less green in years of little rain. Lucky me!

Going Camping

I have booked my first night at the Family Hideout campsite in NamibRand, where I am eager to see the red dunes. And that means being alone in the middle of nowhere. Literally.

Things are getting serious!

As I enter the gate I am greeted with a 45 min drive (for only 20 km/12.5 mi) that is so stony and wonky that I am already reckoning with a flat tire on my very first day.

It was actually worse than it looks here. Go, Betsy!

After a bumpy, mostly first gear ride, undamaged Betsy and I finally arrive at the reception, a wooden box with two chairs and a table in it. The lady gives me a rough map and tells me to meet the ranger at campsite Venus.

Out-of-the-box customer service.

They have 3 campsites in total, all of them some kilometers/miles apart, and you have your campsite all to yourself.

Some kind strangers in a facebook group (thank you Alan and Anne!) had recommended campsite Jupiter to me – the only one with electricity – but it had been booked.

So after a few beautiful kilometers and my first acquaintance with driving in deeper sand I stop at Venus aka a little ablution cabin surrounded by dunes. Wonderful!

There is no signal whatsoever so this is going to be a digital detox.

But not to worry, in their description it said that you get a walkie-talkie radio (would be a bit creepy to be all alone without any connection to the outside world, right?).

The ranger arrives, hailing from Monosyllabic Heights.

And he has good news: the Jupiter peeps have canceled, and I can upgrade. Yay!

After paying for the upgrade I ask: “What about the radio?”

“Radio?? There is no radio. No reception here, so no mobile and no radio.”

Right. I had trusted there was at least some contact to other humans possible.

“What happens in an emergency, then? Also, I want to do the 4×4 self-drive tour and have never been driving off-road, what if I get stuck?”

“Then you have to walk the 5 km to the reception.”

Right. Note to self: Do NOT have a heart attack tonight.

Hello Jupiter: remote, more remote, even more remote. Photo © Google/CNES

“So what about safety?” I ask, bearing in mind I cannot notify anyone.

“It is safe. We sleep near the reception, and we would hear if a car arrives.”

This is somewhat comforting. I think I can mana—

“There are some leopards and hyenas”, he adds. “But they usually keep away from the camps.”

He really has a reassuring way of communication.

“Okay. So what about the guided tour tomorrow morning?”

“We start at 7, and since you are alone, you have to pay double”.

Right. 120 instead of 60 USD. Love it. But of course, since this is a once in a lifetime thing, I teeth-grindingly oblige.

Then I drive from one middle of nowhere to the next, Jupiter, which is bigger than Venus and, most importantly, allows me to charge my camera.

Jolly Jupiter

I arrive and stop. Listen. Feel. Then remember that sunset is approaching, and I wanted to do the 4×4 self-drive.

First I deflate the tires for 25 seconds, as Peter advised me. I have no clue any more how the compressor works since the intro was a while back. Somehow I manage to use it and notice that I have to deflate Betsy even more.

Then I head out for the drive, which is not very long but super scenic.

Sunset, savannah, solitude.

It has some sandy uphill stretches with bends directly after the pivot, so you have no idea what expects you – especially as you cannot see the ground in front of you. Which is even worse when you turn from uphill to downhill: you seem to fall into nothingness with the car. At the same time you cannot go slowly because then you get stuck in the sand.

Two minutes later I do get stuck in the very first deeper sand. I know I have to gain momentum before the sandy uphills, but I am too scared yet to put the pedal to the metal.

Time for Betsy to show off her low-range 4×4 gear. She immediately turns into a heavy duty monster truck and rumbles her way through the dunes. Yeah for Betsy the Beast!

This is actually quite fun, and at the back of my head my old dream of doing Paris-Dakar starts waving its tiny hand.

Random snapshot of Namibian beauty.

When I get back from the wonderful little drive (dunes! Mountains! Dead or alive trees! Yellow grass wafting in the wind!) the sun has set already. Phew, no 5 km walk to the reception so far.

This means I have enough energy left to walk around Jupiter to explore the surroundings, i.e. the dunes the campsite is embedded in. Those trees in the desert are something special. I take photos of each and every one of them for my upcoming book The 24.235.870 Trees of the Namibian South (abridged version).

It’s a tree! And another one!

The after-sunset colors are overwhelming. The whole sky slowly turns from violet to blazing red. In moments like this, you feel what the word awe means with every fiber of your being.

I chose NamibRand because I wanted to see the red dunes, and now I get a first glimpse.

Dune, Director’s Cut.

There is so much to discover, but it is getting dark, so just a short dunesploration for now.

Wondering what animal left those traces… and if it will pay me a visit at night.

As the moon waxes poetic over Jupiter it gets more prosaic again: Let’s do some camping!

My only experience so far has been a short camping holiday in school where our tent got completely flooded, plus one night in Denmark last year with a pop-up tent that I had to wrestle down Hulk Hogan style to pack it.

I have never had to set up a rooftop tent nor used a gas cooker.

So let’s face the tent before it gets too dark. To the sound of birds and geckos I manage to open it. Which is actually the easiest part.

Unboxing, desert version.

There are 4 metal bars for stability. I have to stand on the tire or the back bumper to put them in the holes that hold them under tension. But the front bar is almost impossible to insert, as I have nowhere to cling on to. You have to bend the bar but can only do that if your body has grip and resistance.

After a struggle that feels like wrestling Hulk Hogan on steroids I finally manage to hole the bar. Victory!

Before – after.

There are worse backdrops for tent rigging.

Then I unpack the sleeping gear. Peter had said that the sleeping bag is enough at this time of year but being a chilly mortal I had asked for a blanket. Little did I know that I should have asked for five.

So what else to take up to the roof? Mobile? Doesn’t make sense without any signal. Earplugs? Doesn’t make sense in the middle of nowhere. Sleeping mask? Doesn’t make sense in a resort that belongs to the official dark sky regions of the world.

I do take some warmer clothes should it get cold (it should).

Plus, of course, the peeing device. Before the trip I had asked a female overlander (thank you My Pink Bumper!) how she does it, and she recommended a one liter/0.25 gallon protein shake bottle, as it has a wide opening:

“This allows you to stay in the tent for peeing – but make sure that you empty the bottle immediately by pouring it outside. Or that the bottle closes reeeeallly well.”

Ok. I did not have time to look for protein shakes in Windhoek so chose an 800 ml/0.2 gallon cup that formerly hosted South African pepper feta.

Still I try to avoid gulping down gallons of water at this time so as not to have to use it in the first place.

When all is finished it is nearly 9pm. No way am I going to heave that heavy gas cooker out of the car and make dinner now, so it has to be a cheese sandwich (the cheese chilling, of course, in the unfathomable depths of the toploader fridge, which takes some Hulk Hogan style fridge wrestling).

It later turns out that this frugal dinner may have saved my life, but let us address that when it is due (= in part 3, coming soon (after part 2, coming even sooner (major cliffhanger alert!))).

So finally I sit on my camping chair and can enjoy the experience. And what an experience it is!

The geckos and the birds are rehearsing for their upcoming Carnegie Hall concert, and other than that, there is nothing but a soft wind.

No artificial light. No people. No man-made noise. Just the sky, the animals, and me.

A real introvert’s paradise!

And despite the leopard-hyena mention of the reassuring ranger I am totally fearless.

Feel safe in the grandiosity of nature.

As I am looking up to the Milky Way, I cry. Not because the moon, the ole bugger, is shining bright and thus clouds the Milky Way experience a bit. But because I am so touched.

Touched and grateful that I get to experience such tremendous beauty.

Such oneness with nature.

Such humbleness facing creation.

And oh, that Milky Way. As NamibRand is a dark sky region I had researched how to do astrophotography and now try it out for the first time – where, if not here? The result is okay but, of course, only fractally reflects reality.

Man you should have seen us on the way to Venus walking on the Milky Way, it was quite a day, hey hey…

I sit there for a long while soaking up these indescribable moments. The stars, the desert, and Marie, enchanted like a little girl.

After a while there wafts a super sweet and heavy fragrance through the air. A bit like a stinkhorn, only in a very pleasant version.

The Squirrel: “Huh? What? Could there be a rotting carcass nearby?”

The Buddha: “If you let go of your negative thoughts your life will be much more peaceful.”

I go with the Buddha.

At 11 pm the animals go to bed. As if someone has flipped the switch, all noise dies. The silence adds to the experience.

I have never been so alone in the world and yet felt so connected.

Interestingly, when we say alone, we only refer to other people not being around. Out there in the wild, the concept of being alone does not exist. Truth is, it does not exist in civilization, either. But a thick veil of illusion is disguising that fact very cleverly.

How much more at one with the universe must the elders have felt, back when there was no noise, no light pollution, no crowds. Granted, they might have had no time for such musings, as a leopard was growling behind the next bush. Yet I do believe they were closer to unity, to the source, to the all-one.

Finally the tent is calling, and I am knackered plus have to get up early.

Foreseeably the hamster in my mind is still dancing salsa in his wheel. All those impressions keep me awake for some time.

All of a sudden, I hear a car approaching. Oh no! My heart starts beating harder. Is it the ranger? Is there a danger?

I listen closely but the sound seems to stay the same and not get louder. Weird.

After 10 minutes of hard harkening and no change in the humming I realize that the noise comes from the fridge underneath.

So here I am in the most forlorn of places, in total darkness and total silence. Bar my frickin’ fridge.

I finally fall asleep.

Later in the night, I wake up from “the urge” but also the cold. It is freeeeezing.

No sleep till Brooklyn in sight, so I decide to climb down the ladder to use the ablution facility and not my feta loo (ABBA, anyone?).

It is still the same special atmosphere outside – this time, however, the moon has gone AWOL, so it is pitch dark. Except for an even more splendid Milky Way, which I now can see expanding over the whole firmament.

This is probably my happiest have-to-get-up-at-night moment ever, and I wish I had booked 10 nights here instead of one.

But I do experience this in the first place, and could not be more grateful.

Absolution through ablution – happy Marie!

The rest of the night is dominated by freezing my b.u.t.t. off. After getting up in the morning I remember that I even brought a hot water bottle with me. Duh.

The night is short but who cares when everything’s so magical?

Going Red Dunes

The guided tour in the morning turns out to be gorgeous, as the sun rising above the red dunes creates yet another stunning ambiance.

Ain’t no caption wide enough…

Out of Africa.

Finally I get to see the red dunes in their full glory.

The panorama is not too shabby.

Vistas by the dozen.

Also there are trees…

…and more trees…

…and even more trees…

…you better watch out, Isengard!

As it is still early, the ride is as chill as it is chilly, the latter especially when the ranger hits the metal.

Freezing some more on top of The Grass Catcher in the Rye

All of a sudden the ranger’s vehicle has a flat tire (proving the cliché to be true) so I get a front row seat in a tire-changing tutorial. What took him 30 minutes would have taken me 3 hours minimum.

A day in the life of Namibia, plus a tire-changing crash course

I learn from the ranger that the sweet fragrance from last night comes from a flower – Kohautia caespitosa, aka little night flower aka desert perfume, which only reveals its sensual scent after sunset. Such a delicate, inconspicuous small flower, and such a strong trademark – remarkable!

Flower power, literally. They also constitute one of the many colorful layers of NamibRand.

When we land back on Jupiter I see the site in daylight for the first time. And I like what I see.

Oh, ok, I really was THAT alone?

Stop – packer time!

I wish I could stay longer, but there is still so much more to see. The soft colors of NamibRand, however, will remain with me long after I have driven those roads…

So here we are … Congrats for having read all the way down. Thank you!!

But wait – there’s more!

Part 2 is coming soon-ish (Solo Camping in Namibia 2: Alone Among Armoured Crickets). You will then read about my drive to Sesriem/Deadvlei/Sossusvlei, and crickets. Lots. Of. Crickets. Plus and thus the feta loo in action.

Stay tuned! And in the meantime, why not follow my adventures on Insta, FB, and Twitter?

The post Solo Camping in Namibia 1: Silent Night Under the Milky Way appeared first on free like marie!.

HOG-warts: Skeleton Coast Rally 2022

Marie — Sat, 21 May 2022 11:28:39 +0000

Shiny Object Syndrome in the Roaring Twenties – impressions of the Harley Davidson Skeleton Coast Rally in Swakopmund, Namibia, May 2022.

When you travel you sometimes stumble into events that others travel thousands of miles for.

Which was literally the case for this one, the Skeleton Coast Rally 2022 hosted by the HOG chapter Namibia.

HOG, in case you don’t know, does not have anything to do with Harry Potter’s abode, or some squeaky animal, it simply stands for Harley Owners Group.

As the Namibian HOG chapter was calling, HOs from all over the place paid heed and, well, drove thousands of miles, for example from South Africa, to coastal Swakopmund, the Brighton or Chatham of Namibia.

Straight Outta Easy Rider: Karl-Heinz

Now as you can see here I do love machines of all kinds – especially if they do not only follow function but also form.

Which is clearly the case for most Harley Davidson motorcycles, so I just had to check them out (after the hills had been alive with the sound of thunder for some days already).

What did I expect? Bikes, beards, bellies, beers. And some Lynyrd Skynyrd to go along.

What did I find? Yes.

Harley Belafonte: Island in the Sun

So here are some impressions, and at the end you may admire the beauties and their private parts (speaking of the Harleys, not the owners) in a little gallery. Enjoy!

Skeleton Coast Rallye 2022

(I had only access to the open doors day, so no riding pics, sorry)

Hate to work, love to ride? I can second that! Also, “when in doubt throttle it out” could be a great self-help motto. Got problems? Vroom, vroom!

If you are coming to a Harley meet-up as a vegetarian, well… there is always Hot Glühwein (it was about 24 °C/75 °F outside, just for reference. While the Swedish sip ice tea in this heat to cool down, Namibians need some Glögg in this cold to heat up). As for the Bradwurst – I can only hope that Brad was okay with him (or maybe his Wiener) being turned into a sausage.

My homie don’t jiggle, jiggle… or does he?

At a Harley meet-up, even the ATMs are requested to be on wheels:

What I also found out:

there are a lot of different types of HOs

There are those for whom your average wheeled walker is just substandard:

There are those who never ride alone:

There are those who are tough on the outside but soft at heart:

There are those who can always say, “Harley has my back!”:

There are those who talk chop:

There are those who have been to more places than others:

There are those who love understatement:

There are those who let their Harley ride on two wheels:

There are those who follow the old rules and want to leave life as a smashing pumpkin:

And there are those whose bikes carry meaningful messages (and broomsticks):

So what does “Gou-gou leen se moer” mean?

According to google translate, “soon borrows her nut”. Not exactly a Pulitzer-worthy translation, so I asked some Afrikaans speaking locals.

“Well, it means something like ‘quick borrowing is bad/a swearword'”, which did not make more sense to me. They explained – it is not seen as a good thing to ask “may I just borrow this quickly”, the reason being that the owners of the thing-to-be-borrowed-quickly are afraid they will never get it back. So presumably it means something like “Quickly borrow this ? My ass!”

Then they added: “Here we have a ‘rule’ that there are two things you never lend to someone else: your wife and your bike.”

I will refrain from judgment here. And you? Better refrain from asking any of the locals if you can quickly borrow their Harley.

So here is the gallery – enjoy mean motors, wicked vintage, and shiny shiznit (click on the pics so see them fullscreen/with captions etc):

Do you know any motorbike/Harley enthusiast? Make sure you spread the love and share this article with them! 🏍

The post HOG-warts: Skeleton Coast Rally 2022 appeared first on free like marie!.

Ready for Review? Marie’s 2021: Oh Well…

Marie — Fri, 07 Jan 2022 11:41:20 +0000

Time to look back: What was 2021 like in the Marieverse?

Break it down!

(“Can we skip to the good part?”

I did this review chronologically, and the first part of the year was not exactly paradise on earth. So if you would rather not start with the heavy load you can scroll down to “Saddle up and Ride Your Pony!”)

Turning 50

When I published my blog post on March 12, 2021 aka the day I turned 50, I was quite optimistic that turning 50 wasn’t so bad, after all.

Turns out that the months that followed had a good laugh about this assumption.

But first: The big day. The big party. Not. The world-famous party-pooper C. O’Rona prevented the biggest beast of a feast my village had ever seen.

Still my friends had organized a little socially-distanced-pop-up-mini-surprise party in the garden. Yep, it was March, so it did rain and was freezing. But I was super happy that they showed up, and in the end it was a nice birthday, after all.

Yep, all was good. As I had written in my bday post I was at peace with life until…

The Shit Hit the Fan

My home situation: I live in a two-party house above my landlords in a little village with no shops. The view, which is the main reason I live here, is this:

I absolutely adore my flat and super enjoy living here. It is light-flooded, big, and cosy (and super cheap in comparison to any city dwelling in Germany, which would be double the price at half the size).

The view is fantastic, the green relaxes me, and often there are herons and other birds on the paddock. If it was up to me I would want to live here till I take the ship to the West. It is my personal Hobbiton.

I chose this sanctuary because I am hypersensitive, and silence is key (I once got sick because I lived under a flight corridor next to one of Europe’s busiest airports, and ever since, I seek out calm abodes).

Except for the occasional lawn mowing, roof renovating or heavy-duty harvesting it is quite a quiet life here. Or I should say, has been quite a quiet life.

On Good Friday I talked to my landlady about the noisy new neighbors who are a bit like the Nazgûl riding thru the Shire. Little did I know that this was my smallest problem.

She said, “well, my daughter and her friend wanted to move in, and we would then move to the basement”, which has an entrance to the garden.

Oh, I thought, there will be even more noise then, as the landlords are very quiet but the younger folks, not so much. Not exactly great news but not a worst case scenario, either. I could have dealt with that.

Then she continued, “um, I did not dare telling you before, er, my brother [who is the paddock owner] is planning to build 5 houses on the paddock, right behind our house.”

Saying I was gutted is like describing a cub-defending lioness who hasn’t eaten for 3 days as a cute little freshly hatched biddy.

And you are right, there are worse things, like losing dear ones, or falling ill, of course. I am also very aware that these are super luxury problems, as not many people on this planet have the privilege of living in such a lovely place.

But each of us has their own ways of making life bearable, and the flat is my haven, my calming safe space. And thus it felt as if the proverbial rug had been pulled from under my feet by Sauron himself.

I often have fierce migraines where I spend the whole day in bed. A family of power shovels and drills directly in front of the window might not exactly alleviate this.

Upon this news, the eternal inner fight took place.

The Squirrel: How will I ever find peace again? What am I gonna do? The real estate market is down, there are hardly any flats, and those few that are available have grown inaffordable. I do not have the energy to move, anyway. Oh no! Oh no no no no no! My life is over! Mount Doom has erupted!

The Buddha: It is what it is. Accept it and stop adding secondary suffering by depressing over it.

Ok ok, Mista Buddha, I will try my best and trust that the universe has my back (while still hoping for a miracle just to make sure).

And as if that had not been enough yet, enter

My first 4 weeks of full-time nursing

Although I was not really waiting for the other shoe to drop, it came down quite shortly after.

My 81-year old mother, who lives 900 km away, tripped in the kitchen and fell down, breaking her pelvis. She had to go to hospital so I was on the phone with doctors and nurses and her ever so often – due to The Rona, I had no permission to visit her in hospital. So I tried to arrange things remotely. And there is a bulkload of things to arrange for later (physiotherapy, nursing service, rehabilitation, etc).

But all that was not the problem. The problem was her pain. Pain from hell. She had suffered back pain and 2 herniated disks before, an on top now came the broken pelvis. My mum is not the whiny type when in physical pain, but this time she often hurled, as it was so bad. Which made me feel super sad for her, and I was completely helpless.

What happened next? They pumped tons of morphines into her. And then the real nightmare began. Not only did the pain NOT subside. She also became paranoid and demented, thinking people were after her and she was imprisoned in hospital. And again I could not do anything about it.

When they brought her home from hospital I hardly recognized her. What followed was the hardest 4 weeks of my life. My mum lives alone, I have no siblings. So I took care of her around the clock – and it literally was around the clock, as she was up almost all night for fear and panic in her paranoia.

I will not go into detail about those 4 weeks but she did not get better, which was heartbreaking, and I was completely exhausted, heavily sleep-deprived, and still as helpless. The doctor prescribed sleeping medicine for her but that made the hallucinations and paranoia even worse. And also the dementia.

She did not recognize me anymore, had no idea who I was or how I got into her flat. In hindsight it was an eye-opening experience to witness dementia from so close. It is the worst.

Then we had a call with the health authorities because I wanted to get her a nursing service for after my return home. Even though she could not live on her own for even 30 minutes during that time, they denied us the service (in Germany you get classified in 4 need classes but we got “no help needed” – go figure).

I was at a loss and had no idea how this was going to work out. I could not go on like this and care for her 24/7 (besides having my self-employed day job which I need to do to pay my rent).

Something had to change. I told the doctors that we had to get her off the morphines. It was a hard price to pay, as the pain was so bad. But at least, after a few days of tapering them out, the dementia and paranoia subsided. Not completely but it was a start.

Then I arranged a rehabilitation. That was the saving grace. Even though I was not sure until the very last minute if she could do it, as she was so weak, this was what really saved her.

At home I had cooked healthy food for her but she hardly ate. In the rehab clinic they got her on her feet again, both with her eating and her physical condition. Thank God!

Now, 8 months later, her health is completely restored to how she was before her fall (which is close to a miracle to all who have seen her back then).

Also there is no trace left of that nasty morphine-induced dementia. And I am as relieved as I could be that she feels so much better now. PHEW!!!

This was certainly my (and, of course, my mum’s) hardest challenge of 2021 – but it taught me a thing or two.

Firstly, the importance of friends. She had some friends who were there for us, brought us a rollator or helped with other stuff. I could not be more thankful, even if they just went on a walk with her, and I could breathe for 30 minutes.

Secondly – we are much, much, much harder than we think. Throughout this whole situation, even though I had almost no sleep and a lot of physical strain, as I had to heave her out of bed etc., I functioned like a fricking MACHINE. I made lists of all the to-dos and worked them off one-by-one (something ADHD me never gets done at home), helped my mum, got out to fetch things, etc. I felt like a clockwork.

Thirdly – massive kudos to all who are working in nursing and caretaking. I had a lot of respect for those jobs before, and now I have even more. And the experience confirmed that these are the people who should get paid like CEOs and not be lowest on the wage scale. This is outrageous.

So in a way it was an interesting experience to see that in extreme situations, we do function, and we do have powerful resources that we never knew we had.

That said, I now wished to have a bit more peace and quiet for the rest of the year (knowing that my mum was getting better already helped a great deal).

Enter

Menopausal Matters

cos yeah, in my constant striving for high quality, I had bought the biggest fan for the shit to hit.

My overall constitution is not the best since meno, and I feel more meh than before.

Menopausing hard

But let me only focus on one thing here.

I had just booked a flight to the Canaries in September to spend the winter there when a “woman’s irregularity” occurred that demanded surgery in order to check if all was good.

That was going to take place less than a week before my flight. And you are not supposed to lift heavy stuff for a while, so needless to say, the flight got postponed.

Luckily, the surgery went well. Still I felt vulnerable and not really in top shape.

Despite all that I managed to sneak in a few mini adventures, in the form of some premieres:

Saddle up and ride your pony!

For my 50^th birthday I got a gift coupon for a riding lesson. Yeeehaw!

And so it was my first time in the saddle (more pics here):

The other premiere was water-bound, as that is my element. I dabble a bit in windsurfing, surfing, bodyboarding, and sailing, so I thought, why not be hipster for once and dabble a bit in wingfoiling?

To subsume the experience:

“Wobbly, fun-ish, but I could have easily done without the 2 weeks of muscle soreness from hell.”

Being a board babe at 50 is apparently not quite the same as 20 years before. But does that stop us? Nooooo!

After one of the lessons I had a flat tyre before driving home, and a looong story evolved out of this, but that will be an extra blogpost.

“So Marie”, I hear you say, “this is a travel blog, what about, um, travel?”

Weeeell, weeeell, weeeelllll.

For two reasons – I wanted to enjoy my flat as long as possible, and who wants to go to lands of smiles when all those smiles are hidden behind masks? – I basically stayed home all year.

As I do live in a very lovely region of northern Germany, I took lots of bike trips in the vicinity. Like this one:

And I made some day/2-day trips with a bit of a wider circle.

One was a

Camping weekend in Denmark

Actually another first-timer for me. You are never too old to go novice camping, right?

And Denmark is just an hour and a half away, so there! Luckily the stunning view from the tent made up for the slapstick that was folding it back (read the whole story including a wet tent contest here).

On another trip I went to

The Netherlands, only in Germany

Yup. There is a city in the north of Germany called Friedrichstadt which was founded by Dutch settlers in 1621. This had to do with religion (if I get around to it I will make a post on this city/trip/city trip).

The gist of it: Some old Dude, er, Duke called Fredrik III wanted to establish a flourishing city but was kinda broke. So he attracted Dutch investors (Mennonites) and in turn gave them religious freedom, as they had been persecuted in their country for their religion.

Not surprisingly, the city’s canals and Dutch style houses make it a tourist attraction (mainly for senior citizens like me, but well).

The really stunning thing about Friedrichstadt is that it became a super duper multi-religious-cultural city, as it was so liberal towards any kind of belief. Which attracted a plethora of religious communities – Protestants, Catholics, Jews, Lutherans, Unitarians, Quakers, Remonstrants, to name but a few.

It was consequently called The City of Tolerance, and I do wish we had more Friedrichstadts in the world.

Lastly, a client meeting had me go to good ol’

Hamburg,

the maritime capital of my country. I added a day for photos, even though it was gray and rainy and cold and windy. Hamburg is the German Seattle, so in other words just a normal day.

After all these months as a village hermit, going to a big city felt like landing on another planet. Trendy cafés! Huge organic supermarkets! Hip neighborhoods! For a country bumpkin like me, this was more adventurous than talking recipes with cannibals in the jungle or taking that darn ring into Mordor.

Guitar shops! Modern architecture! Street art! What an input for a damsel from the countryside

So that was my travel year in a nutshell. Mind you, I DID have that flight booked to the Canaries, as mentioned above. And let me elaborate a bit more on this

Travel anxiety, or how I rebooked my flight 3 times, and still canceled it

After summer I badly wanted to take up travel again. Something warm, but not too far away because I did not know how my mum would recover. So I wanted to be within reach (flying in from Spain would be quicker than driving thru all of Germany).

One collateral effect of Covid is perfect for ADHDees like me: The airline granted 3 free rebookings for only 10 Euros extra. A non-decider’s paradise!

So I booked a flight for late August. For some reason, though, I did not feel ready to fly – I wanted to declutter my home, also I was afraid that this was the final goodbye to the paddock as I knew it.

Plus, when I looked at pics from the Canaries while trying to book my stay, they did not seem too enticing to me, contrary to other destinations. Granted, it is warm there, but the landscape did not resonate with me, except for some spots like Teide or the sand dunes.

In truth I guess I was just not willing to leave my place and wanting to savor every day I could with the paddock still intact.

So I rebooked the flight to September. That went down due to my surgery, thus I rebooked a second time to November. Then the client meeting came up, which was before the flight date.

Which led directly to the third rebooking. The final flight was now supposed to be in December, as I wanted at least to escape Xmas.

But now, for some reason, travel anxiety set in. It was so cozy in my flat (the construction thing was still not taking place, and even today there is no exact date yet, although they are eager as a beaver to start building). And this reason. And that excuse.

I am a seasoned traveler but for some reason I still suffer from travel anxiety or travel inertia shortly before each trip.

Plus, the Canaries got really expensive due to Covid. Diamonds and Rolexes were decidedly cheaper than rental cars.

So even though I had made 3 free rebookings, I ended up canceling my flight altogether. Boo!

But I did not want to bash myself for it. Somehow it just did not feel right to travel at this point (although it’s been almost two years without traveling, as I renounced traveling in 2020, too, so as not to contract and spread the virus).

To make up for this sedentary and overall meh year – and now comes the most exciting news for 2021 –, I fulfilled myself a long-lingering wish:

A shiny, sparkly new camera!

Yabbadabbadooo!

This would not have been such a big deal, had I not heavily fallen in love with a rather costly one. But the Canaries would have been more expensive and a shorter-lived experience, so now I am the proud owner of a new Sony.

I did not have time yet to delve into it but tried some shots in a coastal town nearby:

There is more to come, and it is exciiiitiiiiing to have such a beast. Eeeeek!

What else was up this year?

My ADHD had me in its claws big time. As in, not being consistent with this blog, procrastinating as if there was no tomorrow, getting lost in 1001 rabbit holes, becoming more cluttered on the inside and outside. Like, who publishes a year end review when next Xmas is already around the corner? 🙄

On the positive side, while I’ve been cooking with fresh ingredients every day, anyway, I upped my game of DIYing – bread, spreads, bliss balls, sugar free stuff. Sometimes I think that healthy food is the only thing that keeps me sane these days. And maybe it is.

Vegan bliss balls – recipe will follow in another blogpost!

So what about 2022?

First I thought my word for 2022 would be “justkeepallthatcrapawaywillya”. Then I decided it would be “consistency”. Aka the thing that squirrels only really reach when they are medicated. Which I am not planning on being, so instead I will try to create routines and hopefully take them up again when I drop them after 5 days.

I do want to get more traction with this blog, as I want to inspire more peeps to get up, get out, get happy, even if the going gets tough.

Also, my personal goal is to overcome my fear of being visible, and I am afraid this will only work by, well, becoming visible. Dang!

So here’s to a consistent and visible and overall better New Year!

Will 2022 be elephantastic? In sha’Allah!

What are your take-aways from last year, and your plans for 2022? Let me know in the comments!

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Raise the Lanterns – Happy Loy Krathong!

Marie — Mon, 22 Nov 2021 20:14:43 +0000

Have you ever wished you could step into a real life fairy tale? Welcome to Loy Krathong in Chiang Mai!

And bring lots of SD cards because you will take about a gazillion photos (see the gallery at the bottom of this post for proof!).

hello

When I first came to Chiang Mai I did not know much about what events there were. Being a pantser, not a planner, as per NaNoWriMo speak, I usually book a one-way ticket to somewhere and figure it all out when on location. Stumbling through the world, so to speak.

So I just happened to stay in Northern Thailand when November came up, and with it one of the most enchanting events ever (at least in my travel book).

The lovely sky lanterns have been banned from Chiang Mai as they put houses on risk for fire. As fascinating and emblematic as they are, this is also a good decision ecologically…

Loy Krathong and Yi Peng – the traditional Festival of Lights and the Lantern Festival which usually happen together – are seriously one of the most magical experiences.

The festival lasts several days with thousands (or maybe millions) of lights and lanterns.

Soooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo many lanterns!

There are dances, parades, temple ceremonies – you can hardly close your mouth from the awe overload.

So much ornament, so much color, so much beauty!

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The krathong are little floating baskets made of leaves, flowers, and candles. Some have incense sticks, coins or food added.

hello

They are released onto rivers and ponds to thank the Goddess of Water. Also, symbolically, all negative emotions can drift away (we need more krathong in our lives, y’all!).

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On one of the markets I stumbled into a free krathong making workshop:

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So I sat down with many Thais and created my very own krathong. First you cover a banana stem with banana leaf. That is the base for the float. Then you cut and fold banana leaves and fix them on the base in patterns. You cut the stems off flowers, replace them with toothpicks and then pin them into the leaves.

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Et voilà!

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Not to forget THE iconic Loy Krathong song

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4-jXvHRzE68

But beware – the chorus has high earworm potential. When you are in Chiang Mai for the festival you will hear the song about every 5 minutes on every corner, so brace yourself!

But enough words, let’s hop right into the (pre-pandemic) pics. Enjoy this visual feast!

hello

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Lattwersch – Sounds Like German Plum Butter

Marie — Fri, 22 Oct 2021 09:12:25 +0000

Have you read Ben Guterson’s Winterhouse? At the homonymous hotel they are producing highly addictive candy that is world famous.

The name: Flurschen. Since we Germans like to throw around “sch”s and “schchrchsch”s like confetti, this sounds quite familiar to our ears.

Maybe, just maybe the author had a grandma of German descent who also made Lattwersch, a special kind of plum butter (hint: hours and hours of cooking ahead, see recipe below).

Flurschen, Lattwersch, Herschey bars… you get the drift.

Now Lattwersch is not a German term per se, that would be Pflaumenmus (plum butter). It is a dialectal word used mostly in southern regions and coming in a multitude of variants:

In Switzerland they call it Latwerge, which has a distinguished French linguistic goût to it. Eh oui!

Austria calls it Powidl, which might easily pass as a yodeling word.

In parts of Rhineland-Palatinate it is Leckschmier which would roughly translate as goo-to-be-licked.

Silesians know it as Schmootsch (no, not pronounced like smooch).

And the weirdest-sounding award goes to French regions close to the German border. They call it Quetscheschläggel, and have fun pronouncing that!

Still life with plums

So every autumn (the prunes have only a short season around Sep-Oct) I go into mass production, as my mum, now in her 80s, also just loooves this plum butter. And it has to be enough to outlast until next fall.

Speaking of production: crunch time!

(On another side note – “it’s crunch time” in German is “and now we go for the preserves”, which is neatly befitting a plum butter recipe).

Let’s start with a preview of the result to keep you going (did I mention that you need a good chunk of a weekend to make this? But oh so worth it!):

This plum butter recipe will yield 10-13 of those little jars, depending on their sizes.

So here is what you need and how to prepare Lattwersch:

First up: prune plums, aka Italian plums, aka German prunes. Aka plums made in God’s oval-not-round office. Meaning that if you are in countries like the US, you probably have to look around a while to find the oblong fruit (or just simply grow your own).

Unlike their round cousins, prune plums keep their form rather long so are great for baking, drying, or preserving.

Om nom nom

Ingredients for German Plum Butter (which even happens to be vegan!):

7.7 lb (3.5 kg) prune plums

2.2 lb (1 kg) sugar; I use raw cane sugar

3 pieces out of a big cinnamon stick, or 3 small/thin cinnamon sticks, or 1 heaped ts ground cinnamon (though I would always recommend using the real deal, not the ground version of spices)

¾ cup mild vinegar (not the one you clean your sink with, please!)

4-5 star anise

7-9 cloves

1 vanilla bean

1.4 oz (40 g) dark (= vegan) couverture or chocolate

Salt, pepper (obviously not as much as for a savory meal, just a dash)

How to prepare your German Plum Butter:

Wash and dry the plums, then take the pits out (yo, time for listening to that 3 hour audio book! Just kidding – but if you have a plum pitter, it is much faster).

Brad Pit feat. Gene Pitney – We So Stoned (Free Pitney Remix)

Put them in a large pot.

Spread a (clean) hanky and put the cloves, star anise, and cinnamon pieces on it, then tie it together so you have a little spice bag. Add it to the plums. You might also keep the cinnamon pieces/sticks outside of the bag and fish them out later.

Cut the vanilla bean in half, scrape out the seeds and add them to the pot. Also add the bean halves, so they can boil with the plums for a while (hint: since the mix gets quite dark it might take a while to fumble them out later on. Relax, breathe, contemplate until you find them – a perfect meditation technique!).

Add all other ingredients except the couverture and stir. Make sure the spice bag is down under and not on the surface. Cover with a lid.

Let it rest for 24 hours, or at least overnight and then some. Do not touch it during that time.

Then you can open and stir it and let it rest for another while.

And now: cooking time! Heat on medium, then let boil softly for some hours with the lid on, sometimes stirring.

This is what it looks like after the plums pulled an all-nighter

Exclusive sneak peek into the witches’ cauldron

After a while, when the prunes are soft, take off the lid and reduce the temperature.

No, not quite done yet. Do not give up!

Actually, it might be a good idea to profit from those long hours of boiling by preparing a luvverly German plum cake while the concoction is brewing.

Collateral goodness

When the pot content is quite mushy, take out the spice bag and fish out the cinnamon and the vanilla beans (good luck!).

Purée it all with a stick blender until smooth.

The stick blender was here!

Add the secret sauce aka couverture and stir until melted.

Then let it all simmer on low heat for another, er, 1-2 hours.

The mass should be reduced by quite a bit. Stir often to avoid burning, sticking, and NSFW deployment.

I did not stir for 15 minutes. You would not believe what happened next!

“Muuuum, is it ready yet?”

In order to know if you can finally do other things with your life, put a bit of plum butter on a spoon, let it cool a little, then let it drop from the spoon. If it has a viscous texture, i.e. it does not drop like thin liquid but slowly and thickly, you’re good to go.

On a drip trip

Fill into clean aka sterilized preserving jars and enjoy your original traditional German plum butter aka Lattwersch.

Guten Appetit!

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Beach Photo Shoot: What Could Possibly Go Wrong?

Marie — Wed, 13 Oct 2021 17:07:29 +0000

Visuals are everything. Aaaarrrrything. As an online entrepreneur and blogger rookie, you need portraits. Good portraits. For which there usually is no money when starting out.

So for my new blog and brand I schedule a beach photo shoot with a friend who is an amateur photographer. Motto: Better half-pro shots than none. Perfectionism, go home (till I have the money to hire the pro team)!

“Be prepared” – heeding Baden-Powells, plus hoping to have at least some pics if the shoot does not work out well, I decide to do a dry run the day before with my then boyfriend. Who is not a natural born photographer but can hold a camera. So I think.

As my brand and blog are supposed have a beachy summer look, we drive out to the Baltic Sea for some great sunny beach shots.

It is the beginning of April. Temperature: 10 °C (50 °F). East wind: 5 Bft. Windchill factor: 4 °C (39 °F). Time: About 1:30 pm, full sunshine.

By now every real photographer’s toenails begin to curl big time, and the pros know how this is gonna end. That’s why they are pros – and we aren’t.

After we find a quiet spot on the beach I hand my boyfriend the DSLR and take off my winter jacket. I have chosen to wear a light blue blouse with a dark blue cardigan, accessorized by a green felt necklace with some red in it. Why? God only knows.

We start shooting. I vaguely remember a blog post about poses. Something about not standing straight. So I writhe and wobble and wriggle about, trying to smile. The wind blows my hair in my face. It’s cold.

My boyfriend takes some shots – I try not to look into the sun. Result: Half of my face is shaded in the pics. I turn more towards the sun. In the same instant I know that Manfred Mann has written “Blinded by the Light” when modeling for a photo shoot.

Face Yoga to the rescue!

My eyes water. It’s effing cold. My nose starts impersonating Rudolf. I take off the necklace and put on a scarf – did I mention it was cold? Drops are coming out of my nose. The tissues are chilling at home. My lips start going to shreds. The lip balm is chilling at home with the tissues.

The 5 Bft wind does what a 5 Bft wind is meant to do, and my hair starts dancing like Roy Purdy on speed. The brush is chilling at home with the gang.

I put on another scarf. And a beanie. All of this really screams summer.

I did not bring a mirror. I should have. The sun is hurting my eyes. I put on sunglasses. After about 20 minutes I wave the white flag.

That Foreigner guy must have been Manfred Mann’s photographer when he wrote “You’re as Cold as Ice”. Tomorrow’s beach photo shoot is supposed to last several hours – with much lighter clothing, read: shorts and bikini. I feel a certain reluctance.

At home I put the card in my laptop to view the pics. We still managed to shoot about 100 of them. Some looked quite ok on the camera display, so who knows, maybe I can use a few.

I view them. The only way I could ever use them is for a blog post about a photo shoot gone wrong.

They all have some different “interesting” aspects to them. In about half of them the horizon is completely aslope. I slightly overrated my bf’s camera holding abilities.

Never mind, PhotoShop deals with that – or so I hope, until I find out they need so much straightening that I am always cropped.

Who needs feet when they can have a lot of sky?

So here’s a little choice of what I get to see:

My hair looks as if somebody with a hairdryer is standing right behind me and blows it in the air. It is all over the place, mostly in my face or above my head. And it does not look like those cool shampoo ads. More like a Facebook ad about “10 ways to get rid of napped hair”.

The green-red chain does not match the blue apparel at all – what was I thinking? That blue cardigan appears heavily washed out in the bright sunlight. Which might be due to the fact that it is heavily washed out.

Where the Pixie was my mind when dressing up like that for a photo shoot? Maybe I can sell it as shabby chic.

The collar of the blouse is askew and looks weird. My bust looks weird, too – note to self: Wear that push-up next time!

In one half of the photos my eyes are closed. In the other half I squint as if there was no tomorrow. Midday sunshine, hell yeah! Or rather, yeah, hell!

In the scarf pictures I discover that I forgot to take my hair out from underneath the scarf, which gives it the shape of Munch’s Scream. My boyfriend never noticed since he was busy holding the camera.

The pics with the beanie would have desperately needed that mirror – my hair is either squashed flat or sticks out.

I’m sure that if someone had wanted to create a fun fail shoot, they would not have succeeded to make it as thoroughly botched as we did.

So I close the laptop and take a deep breath. At least I’m warm now. I call my friend. We postpone the shoot.

The Mighty Bib

Just put on your most natural smile, k?

Oh look, there’s a ship. Hey, heeeeeeere! Get me outta this photo shoot, please!

Pirates of the Baltic! Arr, arr!

Red scarf, red beanie, red nose. Summertime!

Wow, you managed to crop my finger right… here! Also, great way to wear a scarf.

Bring back the 60s!

The Hair-Scarf Xing Technique originated in the 17^th century and was invented to protect one’s hair from blowing in the wind during a painting shoot.

The straighter the horizon, the more tilted the head!

Me: Look at my bootiful hair!

Every hair stylist ever (and their dog):

Golden rule of photography: Always put the horizon in the middle!

Practice makes perfect!

Ok, for some nicer portrait photos (among others: beach photo shoot gone right) lookie here.

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Pogo Party or HipHop Party? Welcome to German Elections!

Marie — Sat, 25 Sep 2021 19:07:48 +0000

After 16 years of Angela Merkel as the political head and face of Germany, the country will elect a new Federal Chancellor:ette on Sep 26.

What, then, might be noteworthy about this, and German elections in general?

For one thing, Germany is a multi-party democracy. Even though the multi was not always as multi as they come.

When I grew up in the 70s, there were only 3 varieties of chocolate, 3 TV stations, and 3 major political parties:

CDU/CSU aka “Christian Democratic/Social Union” – think Conservatives, Republicans or Tories
SPD aka “Social Democrats” – think Democrats or Labour
FDP aka “Free Democratic Party” – think Liberals (not Libertarians).

The world was very clear-cut and minimalistic, a true ADHD paradise (or maybe ADHD did not even exist back then, just because of that).

The fate of many an election poster

In the early 80s the Green Party hopped on the political stage, and ever since that decade, things went fractal (as in most Western countries): Enter postmodernity, aka the diversification of literally everything.

Not only do we now have about 3478 varieties of chocolate and TV stations but also a plethora of political parties. Some of which are really a curious bunch, as you will see.

[Let it be said that even if this is a rather light take on politics, I know that I am super privileged to have such a huge choice of parties to vote for. And I really do not understand Germans who seriously allege that we live in a dictatorship. This is a slap in the face for all people who really have to live in a dictatorship, with just one party ruling the complete political agenda and oppressing any kind of opposition.]

Now I have no idea whether other countries boast a similar mushrooming of parties. But we do, so enjoy a glimpse of the German Cabinet of Curiosities.

First up:

The Anarchist Pogo Party (APPD). Yep, you read that right. Founded by a group of punks in 1981 in Germany’s punk capital Hanover, they wanted to reward ppl who voted for them with free beer. The idea is still rampant: Quite recently in the federal state of Thuringia, people who got their Covid jab were rewarded with bratwurst as an incentive (non-ironically this time, though). Seems that we can be quite easily bribed with beer & bratwurst, so in case you ever need to convince a German, you know what to do.

On the Pogo Party’s political agenda was, among others, the right to be unemployed while getting a full salary, drug legalization, and the shift from old age pension to youth pension. Weirdly enough they never provided a Federal Chancellor.

Then there is the party called The Party (PPPeter, this one’s for you). As Volkswagen proclaims to be The Car and the German national railway to be The Railway, logic implies that there also must be The Party.

It was founded by editor in chief Martin Sonneborn of The Titanic, a satirical magazine like The Onion.

So The Party is basically the Weird Al Yankovic of parties, and so many ppl got sick of the real satire of the non-satirical parties that they voted The Party party into the European Parliament. Where they gained a reputation for their activism, which mostly debunks the established parties’ BS. They do have a “real” agenda, though, which resembles the Green Party’s in most ways.

The question is not “What can I do for the environment?” but “What can the environment do for the economy?” (pseudo-quote of the Liberals)

Three satirical election posters of The Party, this one about the Wirecard scandal

“Intensive mass animal farming is just green propaganda!” (pseudo-quote of the Conservatives)

Fast forward to 2021. Proudly presenting our ballot paper:

In a federal election we have two votes. The first one is for local candidates, the second one for the federal party, the latter counting for the election of the Federal Chancellor:ette.

Depending on the federal state, we have a different number of parties to vote for, as not every party is present in every federal state. But as you can see from the length of the paper, it’s a balLOT.

Lest you be confused by so much party-ing, there is the Wahl-O-Mat®, a vote-o-matic website for those wondering who on earth they should vote for. You just judge 38 statements from all areas of life and society, and depending on your answers you get a ranking of the parties who most correspond to your values and thinking.

There should be a general speed limit on all autobahns – yes, neutral, no

So here is a (small) choice of what we get to vote for:

– The V-Party³, the 3 Vs standing for change (Veränderung), vegetarians, and vegans. Not surprisingly, plant-based food is one of their main topics, besides things like lowering the voting age to 15 years (which the conservative parties want to avoid at all costs, as most under age teenagers would vote for the Green Party)

– The Independents support neutral candidates that are not part of a party (the party for non-party ppl so to speak). Their core postulation is that citizens should participate more by way of referendums, petitions, etc. so that “we, the people” have a veto right against decisions of “we, the parliament”

– Humane World, a party which was founded by yoga monk Dada Madhuvidyananda (aka slightly more prosaically named Michael Moritz) and is based on the Progressive Utilization Theory, connecting a holistic-spiritual conduct of life with decentralized, ecological welfare economics

– The Pirates, boarding digital change more than any other party around

– The Party for Health Research which has just one agenda, namely a much more extensive research on all old-age related sicknesses (Alzheimer’s, Diabetes, etc.), arguing that more and more people will be old and older, which sounds legit

Election poster message reduced to the most minimal possibility

– The Animal Protection Alliance – their name is self-explanatory, as is the name of

– The Lobbyists for Children. One of their central demands is that children should be considered preferentially in any political decision

– The Humanists, who proclaim to be “rational in action, liberal at heart, progressive in thinking”, i.e. they want politics to be facts-driven, free of any religion, ideology or dogma

– The Grey Ones, mostly senior citizens who want more participation in political decisions and social justice

– The Garden Party, founded by garden plot holders against construction plans which would have destroyed their garden plots (just wishing they had chosen a more creative name, like the Rent Is Too Damn High Party in the US); they are “dark green”, agenda-wise, i.e. driven by strong ecological goals

– LOVE – The European Party, a pro-EU crew that promotes love as the foundation of society

– parties of the extreme right and left from Neo Nazis to Communists/Marxist-Leninists/Trotzkists

aaaand many others.

Last but not least my new favorite:

– you. The Urbana. A HipHop Party. The origin of the parliamental-to-be HipHoppers is Berlin (of course). They embrace the values of the early US HipHop movement and act against racism, antisemitism, and any form of discrimination, fighting for People of Color to be more represented in parliament and being all about diversity and inclusion.

It remains to be seen, then, what kind of parties will be born in the years to come. Here are a few ideas for future founders:

– The Shanty Choir Party

– The Vegan Bowl Suckling Pig Social Union

– Liberals in Labor

– The Prancing Pony Progressives

– The Wedding Party

– CAPOI! (Corrupt And Proud Of It!)

– VoldeSauron – The Thrash Metal Democrats

On a serious note, I love how diverse our political party spectrum is. At the same time, if it becomes too fractal, it will lose direction. Setting up a government with 13 smallish parties might prove quite a challenge, as they will probably never ever manage to agree on a single issue.

So how is the party landscape in your country? Any political unioncorns? Let me know in the comments!

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