The runway rumble intensifies, faster, faster, until the windows clatter in their plastic ovals. It feels like the cabin is about to implode, but right before the burst, there’s that beautiful moment when it falls. Silence. And there you are – in the air. The sky is pastel except for the horizon, where the lining of the evening clouds burns like the edges of a paper towel lit on fire. Below, the rice paddy pools shine in the sun, stretching across the land like the giant zebra rug from the airport Out of Africa shop.

The “EVERYTHING IS GOING TO BE OK” button after the rush hour jam, the takeoff Hail Marys dissolving into pure peace, the sudden surprise of finding rice paddies in Johannesburg-  these are what make it too hard to stay out of airports for more than a couple of weeks. Despite the effort it takes, travel seems to relax me more than anything. Most of the time…

I fall awake from my dream, but it doesn’t stop when I wake up. We seem to tumble through the night sky like a plastic bag caught on the side of the highway. I can feel the arm of the woman beside me press into my left elbow. She had asked to borrow my pen to fill out her Namibian Entry Form, and she’s clutching it so tightly that the blood is draining from her knuckles. I’m afraid of flying, but I love turbulence. The first fall is jarring, but then the rhythm starts to soothe— the predictable pressure underneath and then the release, then the pressure again, release. What goes up must come down. Is that lightning outside? The captain had warned of thunderstorms. The lights cut out as White-White-Red, White-White-Red flashes outside. The “lighting” seems to come inside, a flash, and the white EXIT sign casts a sterile glow throughout the cabin. We’re still tumbling. The windows fill with a warm orange glow from underneath now, like we’re about to land in the belly of a giant flame.

Grounded. Wat lees jy daar? The old man in 12C stands up behind me, pointing to Bryce Courtenay’s Power of One on my lap. My blonde hair makes me false friends often. How do I say I don’t speak Afrikaans in Afrikaans? Trevor Noah moment.

We wind through the passport line, wishing we could cut through the Diplomatic Passports lane. A Chinese man laden with what looks like six backpacks is at the front. Somehow, I’m not convinced he’s a diplomat. Swoop up our luggage and head out to the big white Toyota truck waiting for us. After waving to our reflections in the sign that reads “You In Namibia,” we hop in. It’s manual.

I’m intimidated by this big hunk of metal that’s expected to teach me how to drive stick… left handed… in the desert.

“Can you drive trucks, too?” I ask Anjarae.

“Sports cars, trucks, tractors… Mazdas. I can drive it all.”

A Mazda, eh? We barrel through the dark past Warning: Warthog signs, dodging other cars and cows as we rock out to the Free Willy song, Of Monsters and Men, and a local tune with the chorus “I’m gunna get you preg-nannnt.” Windhoek’s very own Fresh FM has us covered.

“If anyone says that Africa is predictable, I’m going to have to smack them.”

 

Anjarae is refreshing her memory reading the four-inch-thick Owner’s Manual and googling “How to Teach Someone to Drive Stick” while I “read” Das Neue Testament. We both have to do our homework for tomorrow’s desert driving lesson.