On the last night they built a big fire at the edge of the water. They grilled steaks and watched the flames toss sparks up in the sky. Their faces were illumined by the warm glow of the fire. Everyone seemed upbeat and positive. They were now openly laughing about the events from the previous year and were bonded for life having shared such harrowing adventures together. They all vowed to have their friendship reunion every other year at the same place.
Leo announced that next summer he was taking his family on a vacation to Africa. Sarah was stunned and the boys were ecstatic. Ursula was thrilled and buzzing with ideas. Leo assured Joyce and Elsie that they were invited too.
When the last goodnight was said and the last person hugged for the last time, everyone returned to their cabins except Leo and his two sons. They walked down the beach and skipped rocks off the surface of the still, mirror-like water. The moon was full, and the pine trees stood proudly on the mountains and hills surrounding the picturesque lake. Mt. Heyburn, with its snowy jagged peaks provided the perfect backdrop to a seemingly perfect evening. Leo hugged his sons, and they all headed back to the cabin to spend what was left of the lovely evening with Sarah, playing family board games in front of the cozy fireplace. Leo felt truly blessed. He was undoubtedly a very fortunate man.
About the Authors
Lessil E. Richards was born in Colorado in 1967. He and his family moved to Namibia in 1972. He learned to speak Afrikaans fluently as he was enrolled in an Afrikaans school for ten years. During those ten years he and his family traveled extensively, visiting more than twenty different countries. He moved back to the United States in 1982 and graduated from Challis High School in 1985. Lessil earned a Bachelor's Degree in Education from Boise State University in 1989. He was involved in real estate for six years and Wildland Firefighting for several seasons, but his passion has always been teaching. He has been a Job Corps Education Math Teacher for the past fifteen years.
Jacqueline E. Richards was born in Salmon Idaho in 1947. The younger of two children, she grew up in Central Idaho and had a passion for horses, fishing, camping and the outdoors. She graduated from High School in 1965, and immediately enrolled at Utah State University as a Political Science Major. After attending a couple of years of college she got married, had Lessil, and moved to Namibia, pioneering the Baha’i Faith. After extensive travels and living in Namibia for ten years she returned to her roots in scenic Central Idaho. She completed a Bachelor's Degree in Secondary Education in 1989 from Boise State University. She has been a full time teacher for the past twenty-three years and shares her passion for reading and writing with her students.
Forthcoming book by the same Authors:
TYPE I JUVENILE DIABETES:
Fact, Fiction, Coincidence or Miracle?
A Book of Hope.
By Lessil Richards and Jacqueline Richards.
One family shares their heartfelt and remarkable journey when their only child is diagnosed with “Type I Juvenile Diabetes” at the tender age of eleven. They are determined to find a life style choice that does not involve daily injections of insulin despite what is considered to be the norm by modern medical expectations. This book explains the normal medical advice and expectations; yet defies them, and provides a guideline and hope for others still suffering with diabetes. This is not a cure, rather a life changing and encouraging look at viable options to avoid daily insulin injections. It may not work for everyone; however, it provides hope and helpful information especially for those who have been recently diagnosed with diabetes. This touching book instills positive changes and encourages a healthier life style. Is their story fact, fiction, coincidence or a miracle?
Currently available:
EAST WIND
A TRUE STORY
By Jacqueline Richards and Lessil Richards
This is the amazing true story of the ten years that the authors spent in the country of South-West Africa, now known as Namibia. During the last three years of their stay, Jacquie Richards co-owned a restaurant and boarding house in the sea-side resort town of Swakopmund. This book follows the owners and boarders of J.J.'s through heartfelt trials and tribulations with memories of unique people and captivating experiences. A compelling page-turner that is well worth the read!
Africa
Ten years was I beneath an African sky
Whose beauty’s too great to behold,
I’ve seen vultures fly heard the lion’s cry Seen nature’s great secrets unfold.
Listened to Bushmen tell ancient stories so well Sat spellbound for hours at a time
Seen the stars at night change to first light Still awed by their rhythm and rhyme.
Heard Hereros sing as their souls took wing Caught up in their rituals demands
Their dancing feet drummed out the beat
That echoed throughout their lands.
Wild animals run without fear of a gun
Cross bushveldt and salt pans they fly
A termite’s heap is an easy leap
As Springbok go pronking by.
Through waving grass you spot a flash
As a Cheetah slinks after its prey.
The birds’ loud song follows you along
And wonders unfold though the day.
The sun beats down upon parched ground
And rainfall creates marvelous scenes,
But none can compare with a beauty so rare As that of my American dreams.
Chapter 1
East Wind
When the east wind blows, it is the scourge of the country of Namibia, in southwestern Africa. Starting inland, near the low mountains surrounding the capital city of Windhoek, the wind crosses two hundred miles of desert, picking up speed and heat. It swirls and eddies in thermals of sand particles, lifting them thousands of feet in the air. The east wind continues to the coast and only loses its intensity over the cold Atlantic Ocean.
The east wind came screaming into Swakopmund; laying siege to the city, covering everything under crystalline particles of sand. Wind driven sand hit the plastered walls of J.J.’s Restaurant and Boarding House, rattling the glass window panes. The east wind howled around the corners of the building trying to find cracks in which to seep. Miniature sand dunes were forming in the window sills and under the door of my bedroom. So this was the dreaded east wind about which I heard so many stories!
Looking out the window, I could not see the houses across the street; I could only imagine the rows of colorless cottages lining the dirt street that run the two blocks to the Atlantic Ocean. Even the few bright patches of bougainvillea weren’t discernible. The tall Palm Trees must be bent double in this gale. The sand dunes would be shifting near the sea, the salt brush vainly trying to anchor them in their seaward progression.
I wondered if the east wind would extinguish the holiday atmosphere pervading Swakopmund. During high summer, when the inland areas reached their highest temperatures, residents of the interior would pack up their belongings and rent bungalows at the sea. This is the time of Christmas and the one month long summer school holiday. It is a festive occasion filled with fishing, merrymaking, and enjoying the refreshing weather.
The Benguela Current sweeps cold, nutrient-rich water from Antarctica up along the coast of Africa, providing some of the best fishing waters in the world. The prevailing mild winds blow the afternoon mists westward, cooling the coast, sometimes as far as fifty miles inland. But once in a while, nature lets loose the east wind.
The few feet of courtyard between my bedroom and the kitchen of J.J.’s, swirled with biting particles of sand. Dashing through it to the sanctuary of the kitchen, I went straight to the sink to get a cloth and wipe away the sand sticking to my skin. Only after my ablutions did I feel presentable enough to face the customers who would be coming in for supper.
“How long does this east wind usually last?” I asked my partner, Joan Bester. She had lived in Namibia all her life, and, as I was relatively new to the country, I was experiencing something only
told to me in what I had assumed were rather tall tales.
“Until it stops,” was Joan’s unhelpful reply. “Sometimes it will only blow for a few hours, sometimes a few days. I hope this is a short one.”
She fanned herself as she stirred one of the big kettles on the restaurant’s stove. Joan had been a beauty in her younger years, but too many years of tasting the excellent food she prepared, coupled with her overindulgence of alcohol and tobacco, had taken their toll. She pushed a damp brown curl back from her pretty face with a pudgy, yellow-stained finger.
“You know people go crazy if the east wind lasts too long,” Joan continued. “I even know of two cases where the people committing the crimes got off scot-free by pleading temporary insanity due to the east wind.”
“Do you think it will affect our boarders?” I asked fearfully. I had enough trouble trying to keep them under some semblance of control at the best of times.
“It just depends on how long it lasts. I already feel hot, tense, and out of sorts.”
By Friday it had blown for three successive days and nights. It was like being a hostage in your own home. You couldn’t open a window for relief from the heat because of the blast of sand particles and dust. Of course, the heat was just as intense outside.
I kept a little bowl of water and a wash cloth behind the counter at the serving station. I would often slip back there and wipe perspiration from my skin and vainly spray deodorant and perfume. Yellow stains appeared around the armpits of the white jackets our African waiters wore. Sweat formed beads on their foreheads that would enlarge until gravity claimed them and a glistening streak raced for their collars. Deodorant was a luxury unknown to them, and apparently to some of our boarders. A raunchy, acrid smell hung in the air.
After dinner most of our boarders chose not to face the howling sand gale and settled down in the lounge for a game of poker. Sometimes I could hear their excited voices carrying to the dining room. The empty beer bottles around their table attested to their raging thirst in the hot airless room.
I took an order to the kitchen and noticed that Joan’s eyes were not tracking well, a sure sign she’d been trying to keep cool by drinking too many drinks laced with cane, a South African equivalent of vodka distilled from molasses. A half-empty fifth sat on the table in front of her.
As I hurried out of the kitchen, I nearly collided with Ernest, Joan’s husband, who had a liter bottle of beer in his hand and was headed for the kitchen to visit his wife. Ernest was the chief engineer at the Uis Tin Mine about eighty miles away. Both Joan and I had previously been living in Uis with our families. My ex-husband, Tom, was the mine geologist at Uis, and Joan and I had been best friends, as were our sons. When the boys completed elementary school in Uis the only choice for their further education would be to send them away to boarding school in a larger city. Neither Joan nor I was willing to send our twelve year old sons away, so together we bought a large old German boarding house in Swakopmund. We turned it into a very nice restaurant and boarding house, where we lived with the boys as they attended school. Both of us had been on the verge of divorce when we made the move to Swakopmund. The idea of starting a business where we could support ourselves, and our children, seemed like a very brave and noble gesture at the time.
Joan seldom enjoyed Ernest’s infrequent visits. She claimed he only came to Swakopmund to annoy her. I was very surprised Ernest had chosen to drive in the east wind; he looked hot and tired.
“Hi Ernest,” I greeted him. “I didn’t think you’d be coming for a visit this weekend.”
“It has been so hot in Uis the last few days I thought maybe the east wind wouldn’t be blowing so hard at the coast. I almost couldn’t see the road to get here. Everything is just a solid curtain of blowing sand. It must be at least 110 degrees at Uis.” Ernest went to sit at the big kitchen table with Joan.
I went back to the serving station where my son, Lessil, was giving instructions to one of the African waiters. Lessil worked in the restaurant nearly every night and most weekends. The African waiters were very helpful, but being illiterate, they were unable to write down orders. They took menus to the tables, and after Lessil or I took the orders, we told them what to deliver and to which table. They refilled glasses and cleared and reset the tables and helped in innumerable ways.
“Mom, my orders keep coming out all wrong. Can’t you do something about it?” Lessil complained. “Joan can’t keep the orders straight anymore and now she and Ernest are arguing really loud and you can hear them in the dining room. Can’t you tell them to be quiet?”
I unfortunately knew from experience that anything I said would simply make matters worse and put more pressure on an already overwhelmed Joan. I turned up the music system and put on a livelier piece: “Meet Me in Montana.” I had the fleeting thought that I would just about meet anyone in Montana, except Ted Bundy, to get out of the heat and my current situation.
“I’ll take your orders into Joan from now on and be sure she understands them,” I reassured my son. I wished I felt as confident as I sounded. I carefully wrote Lessil’s order down on a piece of paper and placed it near Joan as I gave her the verbal order.
“What’s this?” demanded Joan. “Are you insinuating I’m mixing up my orders?” She brandished the offensive paper, shaking it in my direction.
“I’m not insinuating anything; I just thought in this heat it would be easier for all of us if we wrote things down.”
“Well, save them for yourself then if you are having trouble. I can get my orders right. You just tell me exactly what you want and quit changing your mind all the time.” She reached her hand out to catch her balance as she swayed. I left the kitchen. You couldn’t reason with Joan when she was like this. As I was going out I heard Ernest tell her that she was mixing up the orders.
“I don’t need any interference from you!” she bellowed.
“Now Honey Buns, don’t get so loud!” Ernest yelled back.Several people looked up from their dinners. I turned the music up another notch.
A few minutes later Lessil was back. “I ordered a baked potato but got fries. What should I do?”
“Order a side of a baked potato, put the fries aside in the serving area, and put the potato on your plate.” All evening we corrected the errors coming out of the kitchen without further confrontation with Joan. The clean-up area had a line of wrong orders sitting in a neat row. I showed them to our head African waiter, Gabriel, and told him to put them in a bag and take them home. He was more than willing. There were always hungry mouths to feed in the Township, (the separate village where the non-whites lived.)
Every time I went to the kitchen it seemed as if Joan and Ernest were fighting. A line of empty beer bottles were in front of Ernest. I noted that Joan’s fifth of cane was empty and she had cracked a new bottle.
“Why don’t you go to the lounge with the boarders and wait until we’re closed to talk to me? You know I can’t concentrate on what I’m doing with you sitting here picking at me.” Joan complained to Ernest.
“Oh Honey Buns, all I ever wanted was a little bit of affection from you. Why can’t you just be nice to me?”
“A damn poor way to get it,” Joan snapped.
“You’re always pushing me away. Go wait! Go to the lounge! Go to HELL!” Ernest retorted.
It was stifling in the dining rooms, but the kitchen was even worse. I opened the front door for a second, hoping the east wind would be over, but a blast of hot air and sand forced me to close the door immediately and abandon any ideas of relief from the outside.
The evening was lasting forever. I was like a distraught fire fighter, trying to stomp out the little fires erupting in the lounge, the kitchen, and the usual small crisis in the dining room. I was hot and angry and wanted to throw a few things and scream myself; no wonder people pleaded temporary insanity during the east wind. Finally, the last customers paid their bills and left. I walked them to the door and locked it behind the
m. With a huge sigh of relief, I sent Lessil off to bed and told the serving staff to go on home. I carefully let them out the side door so they wouldn’t have to go through the kitchen with their bag of food and asked Andre Du Toit, one of our trusted boarders, to drive them home.
I finished clearing and setting up all of the tables myself, relieved to have everyone out of harm’s way. When all the work was finished, I told the boarders I was locking up for the night and shooed them out of the lounge, thankful they had not broken out in war.
I could not put it off any longer; I had to go into the kitchen. Usually I would sit for a few minutes after we locked-up, chatting with Joan. We would rehash the day and settle on a plan of attack for the next day. Tonight I pleaded weariness and scurried through the courtyard to my room. The blowing sand particles stung my bare arms and legs, hurrying me on my way.
Gratefully I climbed into the shower. The tepid water washed away most of the sand and grit, but while toweling myself dry, the sweat began to reform. That horrid east wind!
Looking out my window before I crawled into bed, I was relieved to see that the kitchen light was out. That probably meant that Joan and Ernest had gone up to Joan’s room in the main building and they wouldn’t drink any more tonight.
Lying on my bed, I propped my tired feet up against the cooler wall. I must have instantly fallen asleep as I awoke with a start. I listened intently, trying to discover what had awakened me. Far away I heard a muffled sound. Realization dawned, and I knew what was happening. It wasn’t the first time I had heard those sounds.
The first time I heard Ernest hitting Joan was years ago when we were all still living in Uis. Ernest and Joan had invited Lessil and me to accompany them for a weekend to the Etosha Pan Game Reserve. Tom was away on a geological exploration trip; so Lessil and I were delighted to have an opportunity to spend a few days viewing African animals.
B.B.U.S.A. (Buying Back the United States of America) Page 28
