As Jenna and I lay down to our first night’s sleep in Namibia, I can’t help but think, ‘Its been one of those 48 hour days.’ It started as Jenna and I woke up to a croaking old Irish woman named Eithne who curse sang her way through making our breakfast. Ethnie didn’t warm up to us until she introduced us to her dogs the day before: one was blind and deaf (but liked to sit immediately in front of the doors) and the other was a tiny shi-tsu who had recently been neutered. Once we had been introduced to the rest of the family, there was a new softness to Eithne’s personality, and it was a bit sad to leave her standing in the doorway of her B&B in Dublin. In any case, it was time to track down a bus that could take us to the airport, so we could begin the arduous thirteen hours of flying that lay ahead of us.
We arrived at our bus stop early, but decided to take the first one that showed up en-route for the airport. This, unfortunately, spit us up at the airport a full five hours ahead of schedule, and we needed to wait two hours before we could even be checked in. After this long wait, the plane was delayed a full hour extra. Even as we sat at the terminal we realized that we were in for a brisk run through Heathrow Airport. That run had to be even faster, because the bus that took us from the regular terminal to the international terminal was painfully slow. What made it enjoyable though was a family of Brits who were on their way to Singapore. It was a large family: both parents and four very young girls. The youngest decided that of all the empty seats on the bus (of which there were many) she needed to sit next to me (Bryan). She decided that my hiking backpack looked like a rocket, and I informed here that I could not throw it as far as a rocket could fly, nor did I have any pink unicorns as pretty as her stuffed animal in my bag—suffice to say we quickly became friends. She later asked if Jenna if she had a boyfriend. We let her in on the secret that we were actually married, showing her the rings as proof. In a hushed voice, she asked if that meant that we had kissed. We said yes. In an even louder whisper, she asked if that meant that we had snogged. We couldn’t answer yes or no because we were giggling so much at the fact that our new friend just asked if we’d snogged. I’m still not sure if that means making out or caught somewhere between 2nd or 3rd base (I’d say “the pickle” but I think the context demands a different expression). Anyway, our bus finally arrived at international flights.
Cut to us sprinting as fast as we can up two HUGE escalators, dashing past Hindu folks that were in full white-robe garb as well as proper English folk who were appalled at our mad rush to make our hemisphere crossing flight. We arrived at the terminal in time, as they were boarding the plane itself. Our white robed friends we passed earlier also eventually made it into the same line (I noticed they were far less sweaty than we were), but we made the flight just the same. As I was drenched in sweat, I realized the one Indian gentleman in the white robes had a large white beard that I was very jealous of.
It was a peaceful flight, and we both actually got some pretty good sleep along the way (they offer free wine with dinner, so that didn’t hurt the process). In any case, we’ve landed in Windhoek!!!
Much more to come soon.
Here’s the next prayer list:
1) That we don’t get on the Hunter’s nerves too much as we live in one of the compounds guest houses on the YWAM base. The Hunters are our gracious hosts who also own and operate Community Hope School.
2) That we continue in good health so we can be helping hands for the school here (We DID find out that Bryan can teach at least for a little while in their literature classes… but also some math, and Jenna will help with one-on-one tutoring and or soccer after school)
3) That as we continue to discover more and more about this world that seems so much larger than we could have possibly understood before we got here, we can emotionally bear the load that will come when we visit Katatura (we did just discover that Katatura means “Place We Do Not Live”).
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