Living for Disco

Moving House

2006-06-05T08:08:00.000+01:00

Well, it's time to wave bye bye to Blogger. I'm sure you've all missed me terribly, but the last few days have been spent getting all moved in and set up at Wordpress.

So, Living for Disco has a new home. If anyone's linked, could you please update your links to http://www.livingfordisco.com - I'd be every so grateful.

Please pop round and say hi when you have a minute. I made chocolate brownies.

Happiness is a warm cigar

2006-05-30T14:34:00.000+01:00

I feel, much of the time, as if this is not my real life. It is as if I have extracted myself from reality for a long temporal holiday, and when it’s over, I’ll go back to the ticking clocks and the daily grind, where I will slot in seamlessly and look back on this as a strange, timeless hiatus.

Of course, this is one of the things that contributed to the demise of my most recent relationship. My ex-bloke said to me, when he broke things off, that were we in the real world things would have been different. At the time, I agreed with him, but now I’m not so sure.

We met before I even left for Namibia through a mutual acquaintance, and I knew almost immediately that I wanted more. When we met again, three weeks after my arrival, everything was still shiny and new, and once we began seeing each other, I stayed trapped in my little bubble. He was my best friend, my lover, and I depended on him emotionally more than I knew. He was all I had. I didn’t mind that he monopolized all my time; I couldn’t think of anyone with whom I’d rather be. Even now, when things are still so raw, I can see that this state of affairs was not healthy.

In a way, I’m glad it’s over. I still feel deeply hurt, and abandoned, and angry, but it’s fading, and soon I hope I will not miss him at all. My initial reaction was to run, to go home, and to slip into my old life as if under a comfort blanket. Subconsciously, I wanted to put myself in a position where I could meet someone new, and begin yet another relationship behind which I could hide. Serial monogamy covers a multitude of sins, dontcha know. I’ve always been so afraid of being alone, but at the same time, afraid of settling down. I’m now convinced that had I gone home, I probably would not have come back.

But in the post break-up weeks, with the drops of my burst fantasy-bubble fast drying up around my feet, it’s become clear to me that it does not matter where I am or what I do, and no matter how detached from reality I may feel, if I’m going to stay here, then I need to start making it my home.

So, over the last few weeks, I’ve been putting down small roots. Every time I do something to the house, or phone a friend, or go to my salsa class, I feel more calm, and at peace with myself. I’m starting, gradually, to feel real, and to feel happy. Not with the fragile euphoria that characterized my feelings about my life in Namibia to date, but deep inside, in my bones.

I hope it’s not just the weather.

Monday Morning Whitney Houston Blues

2006-05-29T11:11:00.000+01:00

I had such a lovely weekend. I went to Swakopmund with some friends, went out dancing til the small hours, ate at warm and sunny pavement cafes, browsed in upmarket craft shops, climbed sand dunes and sat by the sea and chilled out. Much beer was consumed, and much good food digested. We even took a jaunt down to the Burning Shore to give Brad and Ange a wave, but the security guards looked a bit threatening. I expect they were too busy what with her giving birth and all to come out and say ‘hi’ anyway.

On that subject, I keep meaning to mention that my favourite radio station, Radio Wave, have been running a poll over the last few weeks, on the subject of whether the day that Angelina Jolie gives birth should be a national holiday in Namibia. I say yes. Any excuse for a long weekend is fine with me.

And now, here I am, in an office with a room temperature of -6, with only a fax machine with a stuck ringer, and a receptionist who insists on playing Whitney Houston’s “I will always love you” on repeat for company.

I knew there was a reason that I hated Mondays.

Gordon Bennetts

2006-05-26T12:01:00.000+01:00

Working Title seem to have done a lot of fantastic films – O Brother Where Art Thou, The Big Lebowski, Wish You Were Here, My Beautiful Launderette, The Man Who Wasn’t There, to name a few.

They’ve also been partly responsible for a massive amount of rubbish. Wimbledon – possibly, next to Love, Actually, the worst film ever made. So when I sat down to watch the new version of Pride and Prejudice last night, with Keira Knightley all done up in wispy calico, frolicking with gay abandon across England’s misty fields, I expected it to be bad. I’m happy to say that I was not at all disappointed. It was truly hilarious.

Here are just a few things that I liked about it:
• Mr Bingley’s hair. It seemed to loom larger over his head with every scene, eventually threatening to engulf anyone who approached him in a teetering quiff of tsunamic proportions.
• Donald Sutherland. I’ve always been a bit in love with Donald Sutherland, but after seeing him wax poetic over an enormous pair of pig’s testicles, I’m just open mouthed with admiration. Not too open mouthed though. Those testicles were kind of alarming.
• The statues. Clearly the absence of sex scenes in the film requires losing Lizzy amidst a collection of Roman marbles. Cue many lingering shots of firm stone buttocks and strong manly chests to help prod the audience’s flaccid imagination into a sweaty, gasping frenzy. It takes precious time away from plot and character development, but hey, who cares? Everyone knows the story anyway.
• Mr Darcy. So miserable, he seemed permanently on the verge of tears, yet we know not why. Were his breeches pinching in tender places?
• The alternative U.S. ending. The luminous swans on the lake at Pemberley for instance, must be a result of the high levels of uranium present in the Derbyshire soil in the late 17th Century. And the closing scene... ‘Mrs Darcy… Mrs Darcy… Mrs Darcy…’ Pure genius. Don’t watch it without a bowl handy for those with delicate constitutions.
• Every proposal scene Working Title films include has to take place in the rain, a la Andie MacDowell, because if you’re trying to blink water off your eyelashes, you can’t help but look desperately in love. This is no exception. If it ain’t broke, don’t fix it.
• The dialogue. I don’t know where Deborah Moggach got all that stuff about ribbons from, but dang, it’s good. Jane Austen could learn a thing or two from her and no mistake.

I watched it twice, and it’s even funnier the second time round. I can definitely recommend it.

I’d still rather have Colin Firth wading out of a lake though.

Police brutality

2006-05-23T16:07:00.000+01:00

As far as I am aware, the policewoman behind the counter is speaking to me in Oshiwambo. Usually people speak to me in Afrikaans, but whatever the language, I cannot work out what she is saying.

“I’m sorry?” I say, a confused look wandering across my face.

“What date did the accident happen?”. She’s not speaking Oshiwambo at all. She’s just speaking English very, very fast.

“28 April.” I ran into the back of someone’s car. It was very minor, but promises to be a royal pain in the arse in terms of insurance, and the fact that the people who own the car don’t have any.

“What?” Clearly she is having trouble understanding me too.

“28 April.”

She writes it down on an official looking form.

“What date did it happen?”

I stare at her, convinced that she could not have just asked me that question again, and say, very slowly, “28 April.”

”NO! NO! I mean the day, the day. What day did it happen.” I realize that we are both speaking to one another as if to small and very stupid children. This could be a long process, as there are 500 more boxes on the form to fill in. In triplicate.

“Friday”, I say slowly.

“Where did it happen?”

“Near Maerua Mall. On Centaurus.”

She looks at me with undisguised contempt, and starts rapping her pen against the bars separating us. I’m starting to understand why they are there. “Where? Where? Centaurus is a school, not a street.”

I start to feel a bit teary. I cannot believe that this woman is haranguing me for not knowing the street name of the place where I had my accident. This is a country where no-one knows even major street names, not even taxi drivers. If you want directions you actually have to know where things are, which can be very problematic, if you are, say, a bewildered tourist, and are looking for directions. The conversations tend to be circular:

“Hello. Can you tell me where the museum is?”

“Ah. It is near the government house. You know government house?”

“No.”

“Ah. It is on the road near the Kristuskirche.”

“Um. How do I get to Kristuskirche?”

“You know where is the court house??”

“No.”

Ad nauseam.

We manage to finish filling out the accident report form without it resulting in my arrest, despite a minor altercation over my British driving license.

I ask for a copy of the report and am told this will cost me N$30, and that I must queue up for it round the corner in a different department, even though she is holding all the existing copies in her hand. I decide the insurance company doesn’t need one after all.

I can tell this one is going to run and run.

A change is as good as a rest...

2006-05-23T15:01:00.000+01:00

I'm thinking of moving this site over to the free blogging service on WordPress.

There are a number of features on WordPress that I quite like:

You can create different pages, so I could have lots of other stuff on here. Not that I would do much with it, other than write nonsense about myself, but the option is there.
They have a nifty little calendar.
You can categorise your entries, so that people arriving at the site can browse through all the exciting posts you have ever written about say, pigeons, and be enlightened more quickly than they might have been if they didn't know there was an entire category of posts all about pigeons.
erm... that's it, really.

The 'cons' of moving the site are:

You have to choose one of the ugly and boring templates, which you cannot then change (although according to wordpress, this is so that I don't have to tax my brain with snippets of HTML or CSS or whatever, and is therefore for my own good). I quite like this leafy autumnal template that I have at the moment, but blogger is pissing me off with its insistence in moving the sidebar down to the bottom of the page whenever I post photos, and being in other respects unimaginative.
Because you can't change the templates, you can't use haloscan for the comments, as far as I can tell. Please enlighten me if this is not the case. This would mean that I would have to leave all my lovely comments on this site.

I don't know. Who cares? Really?

Pff. I'm off to buy some chocolate.

I'd like to thank....

2006-05-22T13:39:00.000+01:00

Because it’s lunchtime, and I have nothing better to do, I had a look at my statcounter. It seems that someone nominated me for the weekly post roundup thing that Tim Worstall does on his uber-blog. And he describes me as delightful, which, of course, is as it should be, but it’s nice to be loved. This site has seen a flurry of visitors. I am quite beside myself. Fame finally beckons. I won’t forget you all though, when I’m fabulously wealthy and living it up on my own private island.

Thank you, whoever it was who put my post forward! You shall be rewarded with a bag of fresh guavas.

In the bleak midwinter...

2006-05-22T13:09:00.000+01:00

It’s very, very cold here at the moment. For the last three days, everyone’s been wandering around in woolly hats and scarves. I’m currently wearing my coat and scarf in the office, and I would wear my gloves if it didn’t impinge on my typing. It’s down to -2 at night, and it’s even colder in my flat, with its ceramic tiles, poorly insulated windows, and inch high gap under the back door. I bumped into Uncle Janni stoking the braai yesterday, who just laughed at my clothes and said “Ja, your flat is very, very cold, you know”, before scurrying back into his centrally heated, carpeted abode next door. I’m lucky to have such a caring landlord.

I went out on Saturday for some much needed retail therapy (there’s nothing like spending a lot of money on Stuff to make you feel like a strong, independent woman), and suddenly noticed that all the trees have lost their foliage. Everything looks wintry. Even the fig tree in the garden, the figs from which I have been waiting forever to surreptitiously harvest while Mrs Uncle Janni is not looking, has suddenly become bare of fruit and leaf. I don’t know where the figs went. Maybe Boris ate them, hence the recurrent vomit-fest that he currently undertakes nightly outside my back door. I feel cheated.

There has been no interim season. It’s simply gone from rainy to winter. There were no drifts of golden leaves to kick through, no whirling autumnal flurries as the last vestiges of greenery gave up the ghost. It’s as if I blinked and missed an entire season.

Bearing this extreme cold in mind, I went to two outdoor showings of films at the amphitheatre in Zoo Park on Saturday night, as part of the International Film Festival, Windhoek’s one annual attempt to pretend it’s not a cultural desert. I nearly froze to death, even under six layers of (brand new) winter clothing. Almost everyone turned up with blankets and sleeping bags. The gluhwein and hot pea soup ran out. We sat beneath the stars as the arctic breeze whispered through the palm trees. Everyone was speaking German*.

Sometimes I wonder if I’m in Africa at all.

The sweet, sweet, smell of...

2006-05-19T10:20:00.000+01:00

It’s guava season. I went into the supermarket last night, and the smell of guavas hit me like cheap perfume. It’s a sweet, high stink, redolent of a glass of Sunny Delight that’s been left out in the sun too long. Cloying. Sickly. It hits you in the back of your nasal cavity, and dribbles down the back of your throat, distributing headache spores along the way.

It’s funny, because when I lived in Malaysia, I grew to love the smell of durians, and they smell like foul drains – so bad that people are banned from bringing them into posh hotels and offices. Even now when I catch the scent of a durian, it's as if I’ve been whirled through time and if I close my eyes, I can imagine that I’m standing in the market, jostled and pushed, amid the shouts and the hustle; intense nostalgia in a spiky green package.

Anyway I managed to get the smell out of my nostrils before I got home. On arrival at my front door, a puff of putrescent Eau de Guava greeted me from a carrier bag hung from my gate. It’s the second time Mr and Mrs Uncle Janni have donated a crop from the tree in the garden. I haven’t the heart to tell them that I loathe guavas, and that the stench of them in my house makes me feel physically sick. I put them in the cupboard under the sink. Tonight I will give them to David, the security guard next door.

I drifted off to sleep to the sound of Boris vomiting enthusiastically outside my back door.

I knew just how he felt.

Business2Business

2006-05-18T16:19:00.000+01:00

I have business cards! It’s all very exciting. Since I’ve been here I’ve really lamented not having business cards*. People give them out all over the place: ‘That was a great salsa class – here’s my card’; ‘I’m very drunk, and have no idea who you are, but here’s my business card’; ‘Isn’t the weather at the pool great today? Call me. My number’s on the card’.

Invariably I find them scattered around my flat, or under my chair at work. They fall out of pockets, or become mangled and irredeemably fluffy in the wash, or mired in the piles of small change that gather in the dark recesses of my handbag.

I’ve started sticking them in a school exercise book now, because they are piling up in useless drifts against other useless items on my desk (currently – two empty water bottles, one bottle of spunk liqueur, a pair of shorts, two hundred damp tissues & a packet of ryvita). However, until now I have had nothing with which to reciprocate.

In the UK I was hopeless at the business card game. I’d go to meetings, rarely, being that breed of trust fundraiser who lurks behind the phone, and spends most of the day with her head buried in the filing cabinet in case someone notices she’s not ‘networking’. Anyway, the meetings I did go to, I’d invariably forget my business cards, of which my charity had had about 1,000 printed up. This was wildly optimistic – I don’t know 1,000 trusts. The only way I could conceivably get rid of them was to staple them to applications, which seemed a bit pompous [Hey, look at me! I have business cards, and am therefore very important] and a waste of money. So they just gathered dust.

I couldn’t then believe it when they changed the design, and we all got new business cards – another 1,000 to dispense in a mere two months before my departure. Madness.

Anyway, I have a whole pile of 500 to get rid of now. My name is spelt correctly – a miracle! Praise be! They are nice and shiny, and look as if they’ve been laminated and chopped up by a small child with its first pair of training scissors. Professionalism counts for a lot in these parts.

As ever, for reasons as yet unfathomed, my boss is obsessed by capitalizing the surnames of everyone in all his correspondence, so I am Rachael JOHNSON, Fundraiser. I don’t know why I find this disconcerting. It’s as if my surname is shouting at me.

I can’t wait to start dispensing them in the bar later.

*This is creative storytelling at its most creative. I haven’t really.

Heartbreak Hotel

2006-05-17T16:58:00.000+01:00

Woe. Loss and pain, etc. I will spare you most of the gory the details of my current emotional anguish. I wish it was about something worthwhile, like the imminent extinction of the cheetah, or the plight of London’s street pigeons, but no, it’s just over a stupid man*. It’s pretty grim though, and I’m costing the office a fortune in Kleenex. Thank god I now have my own office, and can cry in relative privacy.

It’s a strange old process, this break-up lark. I seem to have gone from ‘Oh, goody, I’m over it. That was reassuringly quick. Pass the ketchup’, which was the state of play midweek last week, to ‘Every second of the day is an exercise in mental torture. Bring me a variety of classified pharmaceuticals and a trough of vodka immediately.’ When will it end?

On the upside, I’m going to see Mission Impossible 3 tonight. I’m quite excited. I haven’t been to the cinema for a while. Also, the Da Vinci Code opens on Friday. I have so much to look forward to.

Right. I’m going home now, to clean up the half pint of cream I accidentally sprayed all over the living room furniture/my clothes/the bedroom door this morning, after shaking it enthusiastically without checking the lid was on. Can’t wait.

That is all.

*Not that the man in question is at all stupid. Just men as a whole.

Remember me, when I am gone away

2006-05-16T11:42:00.000+01:00

“…anyway, the cheetahs aren’t endangered. The cheetahs are doing fine.”

I put my hand up. After spending 2 days at the Cheetah Conservation Fund, I was somewhat skeptical of this pronouncement, made as it was by a farmer who runs a hunting lodge.

“Erm. Ahem. [I am very good at public speaking – everyone knows this]. You said that you have personally killed about 150 cheetahs, over how long?”

“In the last six years.”

“Right. And your neighbour has killed about 30 or 40 cheetahs recently?”

“That’s right.”

“And you’re just two farmers. And there are farmers all over Namibia killing cheetahs in these numbers.”

“That’s right”.

“And if there are only 3,000 cheetahs left in Namibia, it’s not going to take long for all the farmers to kill them all is it?”

“No. That’s right. The cheetahs are taking a hammering. Which is why I’m trying to get the government to allow trophy hunting of cheetahs….”

Quite how he can stand there and say the cheetahs aren’t endangered is beyond me.

I don’t want to get into detail re my views on trophy hunting. Suffice to say that if someone achieves personal fulfillment by shooting an endangered animal, and returning home in a blaze of glory triumphantly bearing its severed head, or it’s flayed skin, then they should be consigned to the first circle of hell immediately, without trial, and spend eternity being chased across the bush by toothy predators with a penchant for live flesh. The flesh would have to regrow daily, obviously, after the toothy predators have had a good feed. I have given this some thought.

I have to concede, however, that he may have a point. If a farmer kills a cheetah, and gets however many US dollars for it, this will then compensate him for the loss of his game. However, if you get paid that much for cheetah hides, what’s to stop you killing as many as you can and reaping the rewards? When people were being offered compensation for lions kills, they used all kinds of wily ways to lure the lions onto their land, where they then poisoned them, and many scavengers as a consequence (including the endangered Cape Griffon Vulture, of which there are only about 25 in the wild in Namibia). It seems that people will do anything for a bit of cash.

Anyway, Namibia is the stronghold of the world’s cheetah population. It is estimated that there are between 3-4,000 cheetahs left here, of the world’s population of 12,000. Unfortunately, there are a lot of farmers here who don’t give a flying fuck about the cheetahs and their imminent extinction, and are killing them off at a staggering rate. 150 cheetahs in the last six years means 25 every year, just snuffed out by that one farmer. Anthrax is also killing them off, although not quite so effectively, I don’t think. You do the maths.

So, I would say come to Namibia and have a look at these gorgeous animals*, because at this rate, in ten years or so, there won’t be any left. Failing that, go to their website and read about all the fascinating things they’re doing to try and stop the cheetah’s decline – I especially like the Anatolian guarding dogs.

It’s a wonderful world, isn’t it?

*I’m sorry the photo is so blurred. For some inexplicable reason, I turned the autofocus off.

My eyes are dim....

2006-05-11T10:29:00.000+01:00

Why? Why do schoolchildren use pastel coloured ink on white paper?

I’m trying to do some data entry from evaluation forms we collected from a recent tour. If I read any more inane commentary, written in yellow, pale green, or baby blue ink, my eyes will swivel one final time in their sockets and drop, squelching onto my keyboard, condemning me to wander the barren moors with a bloody scarf around my head, like the Earl of Gloucester in King Lear.

Although these days we have the RNIB, so I’d probably be fine.

Anyway, I am going away again. Back Tuesday.

Relative Poverty

2006-05-09T10:01:00.000+01:00

I have a recurring conversation with David, the security guard next door. It happens when I ride my bike to work, or when I step outside to hail a cab.

“So! Why you not buying a car?”

“I would love to buy a car! I can’t afford one though.”

David, at this point, laughs at me, and pushes me away, as if I am jesting with him.

“Your friends, they have cars. So you can also buy one.”

I tell him that my friends had to save up a considerable amount of money to afford cars in Namibia, because they are so outrageously expensive.

“Yes, yes”, he says, shaking his head, obviously unable to understand how I, a white, employed, foreign young woman could possibly be in a position where I can’t afford to shell out N$50,000 (about 5,000 quid) for a banged up old piece of junk.

Then, yesterday, he approached me, his head squeezing through the fence, his voice carrying spookily through the bougainvillea.

“Ah Rachael! You are fine? It is cold, neh?”

I agree. It’s fucking freezing here at the moment. I’m sleeping under 2 duvets. I have new sheepskin slippers. I wear my fleece in the house. It is indeed cold.

“You go to see [some name I can’t make out]?”

“?”

“You know, Paloma. From When you are Mine. You watch When you are Mine?”

As previously mentioned, this dreadful Mexican soap opera is a national obsession. Everyone has to be home at 8.30 to watch the badly dubbed tribulations of Diego, the man with the squirrel on his head, and his evil family, as he tries desperately to win the love of Paloma, the beleagred manageress of a massive coffee cartel.

Very recently, it was advertised that Paloma and one of her co-stars will visit Namibia and you can buy tickets to see them. To see them do what is a mystery to me, but it’s caused mayhem. Forget Brad and Angelina – no self-respecting Namibian gives a toss about a pair of spoilt Hollywood brats. But when Paloma flies into town, boy, it’s a different story.

Not having a TV, I have missed most of this.

“Oh, I don’t have a TV”, I say.

“What? You don’t have a TV? Why?” It’s as if I’ve told him that I bash myself over the head with a brick on a nightly basis.

“I can’t afford one.” It’s true. The cheapest TV I’ve come across is about 180 quid, and on top of that if I wanted to watch anything half way decent, other than the NBC news in Oshiwambo, and When You are Mine, I’d have to invest in DSTV, which costs N$500 a month. Too much for me.

“But, no! No!” He laughs. “But it must be very boring for you. Why do you not just buy one?”

“I can’t afford it. It is too expensive.”

He shakes his head in disbelief. With any luck, though, I may have shut him up about the car.

Drink Me (Baby)

2006-05-08T13:47:00.000+01:00

Firstly, I’d like to say thanks to everyone who gave me such lovely advice after my last post! I did decide not to go (it was only going to be a two week holiday in any case), because I was worried that if I went, the feelings I’d be trying to hard to leave behind would probably throw a wild party, and trash the house while I was gone. I went away for the long weekend with a friend, who was endlessly patient in listening to my extremely one-track conversation, and salving my wounded emotions with red wine. It was grand, and now I feel much better.

Anyway, check this out… I went into my local bottle store on Wednesday, to buy a 3 litre vat of wine (4 quid! And it’s nice!) into which I intended to throw myself in order to drown my tortured soul, etc. etc. After I had braved the Giant Walk-in Fridge and was thawing out at the till, I noticed this little gem on sale for a grand total of 7.5 Namibian Dollars.

I had to do a triple take. First of all I thought it was just a coincidence, and that the name just sounded like ‘sperm’, but then I looked more closely at the delightful little cartoon on the label. Oh, and in case you were wondering, ‘Saug Mich Aus’ means ‘Exhaust Me’ in German.

What a quaint and charming idea! I’m still completely gobsmacked that anyone would produce this and expect it to sell. As it appeals to my puerile sense of humour, it cheered me up no end.

I’m not going to drink it though.

UPDATE: Apparently, according to Zenta, (see comments) it doesn't mean exhaust me at all. Alta Vista must be run by a bunch of prudes. It means 'Suck me dry'. Which is even better. But I'm still not drinking it.

Advise me, go on. Do.

2006-05-02T15:04:00.000+01:00

I’ve just been dumped by the love of my life. How’s that for a dramatic opening? Good, no? Thought so.

Whatever. The fact is he’s just too busy for me right now. Actually, he’s too busy for everything right now, including tending to his own sanity, so it’s not a surprise that I was sacrificed, but it makes me feel no better. At least my heart was only figuratively ripped out – it could have been a lot worse if I’d been born an Aztec.

Anyway, my point in writing this post is not to express how utterly shitty I feel, but to ask some advice*.

A big part of me wants to go home for a couple of weeks. I want to sit and drink wine with my friends, I want to meet my nephew, and I want to eat bacon and eggs in a greasy spoon while reading the News of the World. I want to drink a pint in a pub. I want to travel on a bus. I want to go into a bookshop, just to see if it’s as magical an experience as I remember, having been starved for so long of real bookshops, and lumbered only with charlatans that sell wall to wall Wilbur Smith. I want sushi.

However, I have no money, and very little time. I don’t know if running away for a wee while is wise, or whether I should just weather the storm and hold my head up as if nothing is wrong. Not that I’m managing that much right now. I’m sure most of the shoppers in pick’n’pay yesterday thought I was some crazed lunatic who was really, really upset with the potatoes.

So, seeing as I am incapable of making a rational decision myself, please advise me. What do you think? To go, or not to go, that is the question…

*do old teabags really reduce puffiness of the eye area?

Water, water, everywhere...

2006-04-29T11:40:00.000+01:00

I am very, very hungover.

I walk into the deli. When the lady behind the counter turns to me, I smile, and say 'May I have a bottle of water please?'.

Simple, no?

No.

She looks confused. 'Pizza?'

I struggle with nausea at the thought of pizza, and thankfully I am triumphant.

'Water. Please'.

'Water?' She looks at me, clearly baffled. I start to wonder if I am asking for something strange.

'Yes, please', I say.

'You want a glass of water?'

'No, I'd like a bottle of water. From your fridge.'

She smiles at me as if I am an escapee from an institution for the mentally unstable, and disappears into the kitchen. While she is gone, the other lady approaches.

'What is it you want?'

'Water please, a bottle of water.'

She immediately goes to the fridge and fetches me a bottle of water, for which she charges me N$5. This makes me very happy, not least because I can rest in the knowledge that it is not me that is deranged.

I open the water with shaking hands, and sip the cold, life-giving liquid. I feel it dribble deliciously directly into my brain.

When I open my eyes the other lady has emerged from the kitchen with a polystyrene cup of tap water, and is standing before me, seemingly at a loss. I raise my cold, cold bottle of water to her, and stagger out into the daylight.

Nightmares

2006-04-28T10:00:00.000+01:00

I am jolted awake into the dark by a crash. I don’t know where it’s coming from. I am disoriented, but I’m sure the whole neighbourhood can hear my heart trying to escape from the confines of my ribcage. I look down at my chest, almost expecting to see a Roger Rabbit style heart pounding out a foot into the room.

Lying in my bed, alone in my little flat, I feel very vulnerable. I am glad that I remembered to lock the burglar bars – something I have done every night since my friend Michael told me about how he found a man with a gun in his living room at 2am, trying to steal his laptop.

Another crash; it’s very close. I hear laughter. My neighbours are all elderly. I can’t imagine they would be throwing a wild party at 1.30am, or asking builders to dismantle the house in the dead of night.

As the crashing continues, I become increasingly frightened. There is no-one here who could protect me if someone broke in. Cocooned in my web of burglar bars, I am reminded once more that should someone successfully gain entry into my haven, my safety net would become a trap.

I am afraid to turn on the light, in case I attract attention to the fact that someone has heard what is going on. The crashing continues. There are shouts and screaming. I stumble into the living room to retrieve the phone book, and then I lock myself in the bathroom to call the police. They promise to send someone round. I crawl back into bed, and wish desperately that I was at home, safe, in London. The thought makes me laugh, particularly in the light of a recent email from my friend, who told me that she looked out of her window in Camberwell the other day, to see a group of boys firing guns into the air.

As the crashing and shouting escalates I wonder who I can call. I left David, the security guard next door’s number at work, and in any case, he might not be working tonight. I don’t know my landlord’s phone number – a fact that strikes me suddenly as ludicrous – and they are not listed. Also, I don’t know what I would hope to achieve by waking two pensioners in the night with stories of armed robbers.

I would call my bloke, but he’s had a horrendous and tragic day; he’s sick, and he’s tired, and he’s heartbroken. He could do nothing from where he is, and I can’t bring myself to call him and wake him up, just because I am scared and I feel alone. So I call the police again, and weep down the phone at them. I feel pathetic that I am so frightened of burglars who aren’t even trying to get into my house, but the police are very kind. Apparently they are outside my house – can I go outside to speak with them?

I am flabbergasted. ‘You want me to go outside?’, I ask. All my senses are telling me not to do this, but I unlock my gate, and go up to the main gates. As I walk up the drive, I hear laughing, two loud bangs, and the silver confetti of breaking glass from the house next door. I let the policeman in; again, he is helpful and friendly, although he refuses to get out of the car because Boris is bounding around, delighted at the opportunity to make a new friend. I suddenly feel enormous affection for this fat, stupid dog, who just wants to love everyone. If he wasn’t so hairy and moulting, and if he didn’t wave his pink doggy penis around so arbitrarily, I would drag him into bed with me, for something warm to hold.

The police car departs on a tour of the block, sirens wooping in the dark. I draw all my curtains, curl up into bed, and cry, although I’m no longer sure what it is I’m crying about. Soon, everything becomes quiet, and I drift into a fitful sleep, my dreams populated with would be burglars and thieves, their hyena faces at my window, snarling and laughing.

This morning, in the warm sunshine, my fear seems completely out of place. David the security guard next door steps out to greet me as I leave for work, a steaming cup of coffee in his hand. Everything is normal.

He asks me about last night. When he arrived for work this morning, his colleague told him that he had seen two men standing quietly, either side of my front gate, at 2am. He didn’t shoot them; David seems disapproving of this. He tells me that if he had been there, he would have at least threatened to shoot them. He says it is his responsibility to protect not only the house he works at, but all the houses he can see from his post. He shows me his gun. I feel oddly comforted, until he tells me I shouldn’t have left the house.

Those robbers, he says, his face concerned, they could shoot you.

Brat

2006-04-21T16:51:00.000+01:00

“Good morning, Africa Online!”

“Hello! It’s Rachie here from …… I called yesterday afternoon to say that our wireless internet was down and no-one has called me back. It’s still not working. Could you send someone to find out what is wrong, please?”

“Hmm. Well, since when has it not been working?”

“Yesterday, at around midday.”

“Oh. Well, you know, it could be the weather. It is very cloudy.”

“…!”

Cue various promises to come around ‘in half an hour’. Five hours later, I have resorted to phoning the guy up, and leaving messages on his cellphone every half hour.

“Hello, Rodney, it’s Rachie again, from … I still haven’t heard from anyone, so I’m just going to call you every half hour or so, until you either get back to me, or come round and sort it out.”

“Hi, Rodney, it’s Rachie again. Still no calls! Just to let you know. I guess if I don’t hear from you, I’ll be leaving another message at, oh, 2.15 or so! Bye!”

I wouldn’t normally do this, because it is rude and aggressive, and I don’t like being rude and aggressive. However, I found out quite early on that this approach is one of the only effective ways to get people to come and sort out your problems. Otherwise they’ll just assume that you’re not going to harry them to their graves, tell you they'll be there 'now now', and put you promptly on the bottom of the list. I think it’s an age thing. Ten years ago, I would have been horrified at the thought that someone I don’t know, and am never likely to know, thinks bad things of me. Now I don’t give a toss. I just want my emails.

At 4pm, I get told that it is Telecom that is the problem, and they need to get someone to come out ‘maybe later next week’ to look at my box.

“Hang on,” I say in my best Acerbic Voice. “I reported this yesterday. I’m a bit fed up that no-one did anything about this before 4pm and now I won’t be getting important emails that I’m supposed to be getting”. I’m a bit embarrassed about saying the last bit. There aren’t really any important emails, or at least, not for me. I end up sounding a bit ridiculous. Especially as while I’m ranting about how important I am, the director of VSO comes in and hands me a parcel from home. It contains Ty-phoo tea bags.

30 minutes later, the internet is working.

Maybe it was the weather after all.

Namibia - Birthing Haven to the Stars

2006-04-20T11:53:00.000+01:00

It is ridiculous. For months before my impending departure to Namibia, people I met in pubs would find out that I was off to do VSO, and would ask me, politely, where I was going.

“Namibia!”, I would say, excitedly.

“Nambibibia? Mandimba? Mandibles?”, they would repeat, blankly, clearly wondering which desperate continent could be hiding a country so rarely heard of, and difficult to pronounce.

“No! Namibia! It’s above South Africa, below Angola and next door to Zambia, Zimbabwe and Botswana! It’s by the sea!” I would say, knowing that none of these would be likely to enlighten someone who is incapable of saying a four syllable word of such staggering simplicity as Na-Mi-Bi-A. I mean, if you can say Do –re-mi, what’s the fucking problem?

Anyway, now that bloody Brad and Angelina have turned up, and are hiding in various lodges and seaside hideaways with their celebrity foetus, everyone’s talking about it. You can’t get away from mentions of Namibia in the press. I’ve got tabloid journalists in helicopters hovering above my house every second of the day. It’s intolerable.

I’m going to have to move to Djibouti.

Excuse me, Mr President...

2006-04-19T16:45:00.000+01:00

I still have the car. It’s still a pain in the arse to drive, but bliss to have access to. At least now I have got the hang of wrenching it into first gear and, time being a great healer, I can now more or less drive without the need to take a bag of Kleenex with me. A good thing, because I almost got shunted off the road by the Presidential cavalcade this morning. Or at least I think it was them. It could just as easily have been Brad and Angelina, on their way round to my house for coffee. And I’d have hated to have them see me all blotchy eyed and raving.

This happens quite a lot in Windhoek, as it is a small city. Namibian President Hifikepunya Pohamba likes to travel in large and numerous beflagged and blacked-out limos, escorted by many wailing police cars, his route cleared by frighteningly grim-faced traffic police sporting spotless white gloves and firearms. Whether this is because his wife needs to carry a lot of diamond encrusted shoes on their trips around town, or whether he finds it amusing for people to try to guess which of the 15 limos in the lineup he is actually in, I don’t know. However, this isn’t the first time I’ve happened across their route on an innocent errand in the last two weeks. This time, he had the Botswanan President with him.

Today was actually very scary. I’m a good driver, but sometimes I’m not so observant. They have a system here called the ‘three- or four-way stop’, which means at intersections, the first driver to arrive at the stop sign has the right of way. I have a mysterious blind spot as far as these stop signs are concerned. Sometimes, I just don’t see ‘em. It can be a problem.

I’m ok with traffic lights though, which is why I was so bemused when all the traffic seemed to be running red lights with gay abandon down Hosea Kutako Drive. Of course, I hadn’t noticed the frighteningly grim faced traffic police sporting spotless white gloves and firearms, waving everyone through, which would have tipped me as to the cause of the free for all.

So, caught up in the flow of 4x4s, and shonky taxis, I just ran the red lights with everyone else, and soon, all the traffic around me seemed to melt away. There was only me, and my boss, who for some reason kept saying “Ze President of Botswana is ‘ere”, on the road. And rapidly approaching in the rear view mirror was a man on a police motorbike. As he overtook me he appeared to be quite angry, and was gesticulating me rather rudely. I was a bit confused.

I very shortly passed another grim faced, heavily armed traffic policewoman in the middle of the highway, who also seemed overly cross. It was at this point that I realized that if I didn’t get the hell off the road, the double-Presidential cavalcade was going to end up containing a ropey 1997 Opel Corsa hatchback. And their bodyguards might not like it. They might try and shoot at us. I think African Presidents can be a bit touchy about having non-matching cars in their parades, however much we might smile and wave.

So today, for the first, and hopefully the last time in my life, with my boss in the passenger seat saying “Yes, I sink zat now perhaps it would be a good time to get off ze road”, I reversed at full speed down a four-lane highway. I managed to peel off down a side road, just as the whole bang-shoot shot past in a blare of sirens and waving flags.

You can’t say my life here isn’t filled with mystery and excitement.

Drive Time Blues

2006-04-07T14:20:00.000+01:00

I have the use of a car at the moment. Usually, this would make life much easier. Cars in Windhoek are very, very useful.

Unfortunately this car has somewhat of a glitch, in that it is incredibly, ridiculously difficult to get it into first gear. You think you’ve got it, you take your foot off the clutch, and start to move up the driveway/into the road to turn right/across the busy intersection/away from the traffic lights, and the car sputters and dies, because once again, you’ve slipped it into third. You’re then stuck in the middle of the road, with taxi drivers bearing down on you, and 4x4 monster trucks about to shunt you into the middle of next week, while you struggle with the fucking gear stick until your arm is numb.

I’m in an emotionally fragile state right now, and so my mornings this week have consisted of fighting noisily and helplessly with an intransigent vehicle, and then collapsing in angry, desperate tears onto the steering wheel.

I should just cycle, really.

Don't leave me hangin' on the telephone...

2006-03-29T11:07:00.000+01:00

Rrrrrring…..

I am the only person here. Our nice-but-incredibly-pointless receptionist has gone to the dentist, so I’m answering the phones.

“Good Morning, [my organisation]”

Loooong pause. “Hello.”

“Hello, how can I help you?”

“I was just wondering did you get the email I sent?”

“Who is this?”

“Did you get the email I sent?”

“I don’t know. Who are you?”

“Borris.” Goody. I don’t know who he is.

“Who did you send it to?”

“The lady who gave me the email address.”

“Which email address was it?”

“It began with an E.”

“Oh, ok. Let me just check. Yep, we have it.”

“I have the certificate, and the thing.”

“(??) Jolly good. That’s great. Anything else I can help you with?”

“No.”

Beeeeeeep.

“Bye then. Call again soon.”

Intercape Interlude

2006-03-23T08:17:00.000Z

It is 1 am. The lights of the 24 hour Shell garage shine warmly into the thick darkness of the frog-filled night. My eyes are heavy with the bleariness of aeroplane sleep. My arse feels like a lifetime’s worth of cellulite has settled in the past 8 hours and will continue to make itself comfortable over the next 7. I have not eaten since lunch time, as I mistakenly assumed that 24 hour Shell garages were ubiquitous on Namibia’s rather swanky roads.

I have already fallen victim to the tolley-nazi once on this journey. Fortunately I had almost finished by beer before she marched up, all indignant bosom and accusing eyebrows, beckoned towards my can with an imperious wave of her talons, and said ‘Yes, please, thank you very much’ while staring off into the distance as if I did not exist. I think she may also have been tapping her foot. This is a woman who loves her job.

So, 1 am ticks slowly by. I am waiting for the door to open so that I can step outside and get some food. So is another man, standing patiently behind me.

“This is not a disembark”, barks the trolley-nazi, with an alarming degree of satisfaction at the idea of imprisoning a busload of clients so tantalizingly close to food.

“Would it be possible to get some food from the shop?” I ask politely, only to receive a glare in return.

The man behind me moves towards the door.

“Where do you think you’re going? I said this is not a disembark.”

I have not paid almost a third of my monthly allowance to be dictated to by a sexually-frustrated harridan in a stretchy orange shirt who probably whiles away the hours by conducting lurid fantasies involving the driver’s enormous couch-potato stomach. I follow her down to the door at the front of the bus, and demand to be allowed out to go to the shop. She ignores me. I make towards the open door. She stands in my way.

“I have opened the door at the back for you”.

I am not in the mood for nonsense, but nonsense seems to be in the mood for me.

“Why can’t I use the door at the front? It’s right here.”

She ignores me, and stands bulkily in my path. I’m glad that this woman is only in charge of making the lives of Intercape passengers intolerable, and not of something important, like passport control. I consider delivering a swift kick to the back of her head, but feel that this may result in me being stranded in Grootfontein in the middle of the night, with only a thousand frogs and a lascivious pump attendant for company, so I stomp off to the back door, wishing her very ill.

It is now 1.15 am. I am very tired, but I do, at least, have a hot steak and kidney pie in my hand. I move to pay, and a pleasant looking man standing at the till starts to make small talk.

“Are you going to Japan?” he asks, as if this is a perfectly normal question to be asking someone who has just got off the Intercape in fucking Grootfontein-over-nowhere in the middle of the night.

“No. Not today”, I reply.

“Where are you going?”

“Windhoek.”

“Windhoek?” He manages to make it sound as if I said ‘Mars’. “Are you German?”

“No, I’m English.”

“Aaaaaaah! I see. Have you been checking out these Olympics?”

“No.” By this point I am utterly confused, and starting to suspect that this is the aim of this conversation-from-the-twilight-zone. All I want is to eat my pie, and maybe the opportunity to drill holes in the trolley-nazi’s head, just for a little while.

I get back on the bus and she looks at me accusingly. “The kettle is broken. I don’t know who did it. You can’t have any coffee.”

At 6.10 this morning I was woken by the announcement that we had reached our destination. “All seats to be returned to an upright position, and luggage to be stored under the seat in front of you” she instructs us all. Realisation dawns. She clearly wants to be an airborne trolley-nazi, so that she can terrorise people at 30,000 ft, and not have to deal with the chaos engendered by the uncontrollable and untidy wandering of passengers over Shell station forecourts at silly o’clock in the morning.

I’m tying my shoelace when I feel my seat shaking. “Seats in an upright position I said!”, she shouts, whacking the back of my chair vigorously.

I step off the bus into the slow, chilly dawn and am instantly surrounded by taxi drivers. It’s going to be a long, long day.

Away

2006-03-17T12:00:00.000Z

I'm going on holiday.

Yes.

Again.

This time I'm going to the little pan-handly bit that sticks out of the top right hand corner of Namibia. Apparently there be dragons. Well, elephants, anyway. I'm off to see some friends.

The bus journey is 15 hours, and it starts at 6pm. I will probably be placed next to the toilet, as usually happens on long distance bus journeys.

Actually, last time I was on a journey anywhere near this long was in Cambodia. I got on the bus to Siem Reap in Bangkok, confident in the expectation that while the touted journey time of 4 hours was a little ambitious, it couldn't possibly take longer than 6. I spent the following 17 hours on a bus with a bunch of singing Swiss, and when they weren't warbling, Khmer bands doing translated covers of Elton John and Boyzone drifted softly into my waiting ears.

I have high hopes for this journey.

What if...

2006-03-15T07:24:00.000Z

...you woke up one morning, to discover that the last two and a half years of your life have disappeared? You wake up, lying in bed next to someone you never expected/wanted to see again, listening to church bells confirm the nightmare, and praying that he doesn't wake up, that you won't have to go through one more minute of bad sex with the wrong man.

Would you have to remember every single thing that you did, and do it the same, at the same time, on the same day, to get to where you were when it all ceased to exist?

If you were with this person, and knew you still had some months to go before the inevitable demise of the relationship, would you stay in it until the appointed time, or would you end it immediately to avoid the horror, and risk losing everything that you will have in the future that makes you happy?

I don't know why, as it's clearly not going to happen, but the question is bothering me.

Brow Beaten

2006-03-14T14:41:00.000Z

I have lost my eyebrow tweezers.

As most girls will agree, I’m sure, the selection of a pair of eyebrow tweezers can be a troublesome business. I had gone through a number of pairs of eyebrow tweezers that failed to tweeze to my satisfaction, including one promising pair that inexplicably stopped tweezing completely; then I found this pair. They’re made by Wilkinson’s Sword, by the way, if anyone is interested, and they were fabulous.

But anyway, I have lost them, and my eyebrows are threatening to take over the world. This is distressing for me, as my eyebrows, or eyebrow, more accurately, has always been rather effusive and enthusiastically rides roughshod over parts of my face in which it is not welcome.

I succumbed to madness last week, and tried to shave it. Have you ever tried to shave the bridge of your nose? It’s a terrifying experience. Also, it didn’t work, and now it is back, furring the area between my eyes and threatening to set up camp on the upper reaches of my cheeks. This is a problem.

Anyway, as I was attempting to find a picture of Chewbacca to which I could link to illustrate the rampant state of my facial hair, I discovered that Wikipedia have a whole section on the Chewbacca Defence.

I love it. It’s so pointless. But its also hilarious, and it’s taking my mind off the fact that tonight, my boyfriend will be confronted by the brutal realization that I am in fact directly descended from Brian Blessed.

Would you like some grammar with your tea, Mr Gates?

2006-03-06T11:56:00.000Z

I have, just this minute, utterly lost any scant faith I may have had in the Microsoft spelling and grammar checker in Word.

I'm already cheesed off, because it insists on Americanising all my spelling, despite my settings being set to English (United Kingdom) on a daily basis. Which is annoying.

But can someone tell me, please, because I'm dying to know, what is wrong with this sentence?

"In the evening, the group met with other young musicians from the Oshikuku area, in order to listen to them perform."

According to Word, it is all wrong. Terribly not done, darling. The irritating wavy green line underneath it tells me so. It helpfully suggests the following amendment:

"In the evening, the group met with other young musicians from the Oshikuku area, in order to listen to them performs."

Which is clearly perfectly grammatically correct. Clearly.

Ride a cock horse

2006-03-06T09:31:00.000Z

I went horse-riding at the weekend.

I’m not a very elegant rider. I can ride, but I’m not vastly experienced. The first time I went here, I rode with some Dutch friends. In the course of the ride, I discovered that they’d all been brought up on horseback. Thus I was hugely thankful for the stubborn, lazy old horse across whose wide back I was straddled, because he stayed firmly at the back, sparing everyone the sight of my arse waving about in the air as I tried to find the horse’s rhythm.

Yesterday was better. I was less nervous about falling off and shattering my skull into tiny pieces because I’d brought my cycle helmet, and it all came back to me pretty early on. The only trouble I had was trying to stop my noble steed turning and heading for home every time a well-known shortcut hove into view.

“Pull the right rein…”, shouted my friend, her voice drifting over from a distant path on the other side of the hill.

“I am, I am”, I bellowed, as the fiend pulled the reins from my hands again and ambled off into a morass of strung-out spiders’ webs in order to find some juicy grass and have a good, leisurely fart. The spiders are huge, and orange, and look like something out of Starship Troopers.

My problem is that I can imagine having a bit in my mouth, and I can imagine how much I’d hate anyone who yanked it about without any consideration. I know that, somehow, I expect the animal to read my mind, and go the way I want without my having to explain it to it in fancy terms. My empathy and expectation of animal telepathy is the horse’s excuse to be a wanker.

Anyway, eventually I found a tone to which the horse responded (“Listen, you fucker, get out of the camel-thorn tree, or I’ll kick you in the fucking nuts”), and started being firmer on the bit, and we returned to the fray.

And it was beautiful. Early evening’s alchemy turned the abundant grass to a whispering carpet of gold. The sun reflected flashes of fire in the river, serene in its wide, stony bed. Eland and oryx, fat on the copious greenery, stood alert and watched us pass. As we cantered along the long-shadowed path towards home, a huge herd of blue-grey wildebeest stampeded in front of us, shaking their thick, heavily bearded and war-painted necks, and kicking up dust.

The alarming bruises on the inside of my thighs were worth every second.

Flutter by, Butterfly

2006-03-03T12:57:00.000Z

It is butterfly season here. As I mentioned in the last post, butterflies have become a standard attachment to any self-respecting front-fender, or windscreen wiper. And yet, despite the millions that doom themselves simply by fluttering prettily above the warm tarmac, there still seems to be an endless supply of them.

There is a bush outside our office which is a mass of pink flowers. You can’t see the flowers though, because the whole damn thing is covered in butterflies. It’s like the plant itself is alive, or as if they are attempting to carry it off to some sacred butterfly haven, so that that they can continue to worship its pinkness without having to worry about traffic.

I might try and take a photo.

Apart from this, everywhere you go, the air is full of flickering wings. Windhoek is unusually green right now, with grass verges that reach almost to my armpits. The grass, the trees, the road, the houses, all are adorned with a flittery canopy of butterflies.

Unfortunately, it also means that the place is full of moths. A few weeks ago, the Bloke’s outside walls were crawling with pale winged specimens that laid their eggs, and then died in droves all around the house. They disappeared and have been replaced by similar, dark brown ones that are about the size of the palm of my hand. They get everywhere. I found one crawling up the arm of the sofa I was sitting on in the bar the other day.

I like to leave my sliding doors open at night, so that the fresh air gets in. This clearly extends an invitation to the bug population of the town, and my bedroom seems to have been chosen as the haunt of these moths. I didn’t mind them until last night, when I lit the mosquito coil and all the insects in the room went berserk, and started hurling themselves at the walls in an attempt to escape. I had a moth in my hair for almost a minute, and I can tell you, I didn’t think they made my skin crawl until I practically gave myself a concussion trying to get the damn thing off me.

In the end I just turned the light off, put a pillow over my head and went to sleep. When I woke up this morning, the walls were bare.

Animal, vegetable, or mineral?

2006-03-02T12:13:00.000Z

It has been raining pretty much incessantly here all week. The towels that I left on the line on Sunday afternoon have been getting almost-dry, and then are rained upon again, and so I left them there. I decided that enough was enough this morning, and went to move them to the line on my little porch.

That’s when I discovered that things have begun nesting in them, and that butterflies have got caught in the fibres. I had to take hold of one by the wings and pull, successfully detaching all but three stubborn legs from my ~~nice, clean~~ infested towels. Normally this would distress me more than it did, but I’ve been driving around Namibia a lot lately, and there are so many butterflies that I have become accustomed to seeing their innards splattered over windscreens and wipers, their vaguely, painfully fluttering wings festooning the radiators of vehicles in morbid decoration. So I wasn’t too phased about leaving its little legs stuck in the depths of the towel; just about picking the legs out afterwards. The thought of finding bits of butterfly limb, post-drying, in places where butterfly limbs aren't meant to be does not appeal.

I’m going to soak them in bleach and hope that does the job instead.

On the plus side, tiny green sprouts have made an appearance in the basil corner of my little tub of soil. They are definitely fledgling leaves, and not dandruff from the woodworm-crazy beams. Despite the terrific excitement, I successfully resisted the temptation to dig them up and have a good look, and also to dig up the ones that are not sprouting to find out what the problem is.

I think that this shows remarkable restraint on my part.

Herbacious, dude...

2006-02-28T07:32:00.000Z

I have planted things. Yes, indeed.

It is extremely difficult, and expensive, to buy fresh herbs here. Normally you are so grateful to find a little plastic packet of basil, or some such, that you snatch it off the hook in the manner of a sneak thief, and scuttle away before someone else can make off with it. Then, when you get them home, you find that they have gone black, or have been eaten by something, or that they are not herbs at all. So, on his extended trip to the UK over Christmas, my bloke bought some herby seeds and brought them back all the way to Namibia for me to plant.

I don’t have green fingers. I never have. I normally manage to kill anything green that comes under my care within a few short hours. I’m sure that I must be adopted, because both of my parents did/do wonders in the garden, and I was brought up with horticultural terms being drip fed into my waiting ears. Despite this, I spent years thinking that Hebe was a chain of hairdressing salons, while unthinkingly becoming widely known as the Death of Plants.

So I’m very excited about my herbs. I’m hoping that this time I will manage to actually grow something. I have images of bushy basil plants the size of small children, and coriander so abundant that I will have to construct a new porch just to house it. Fat, shiny fruits will drip from the chilli trees that I have grown in record time, and I will have enough mint to sell to Colgate for a tasty profit, and still be able to pickle my liver with unlimited mojitos for the rest of my life.

So, on Sunday I sat and sifted a pile of soil, and under the watchful eyes of the plant expert that is my beloved I sprinkled some little seeds into corners and tenderly covered them up. Then I went outside every half hour to check on them, in case they were being eaten by birds, or had decided to start growing, or something.

I’m not sure how long I’ll have to wait for them to sprout, considering the warm climate, and the amount of rain that we’re getting. I’m hoping something will have happened by this evening, or I’ll start to worry*.

*I came out this morning, and one of the coriander seeds had become exposed. This is a disaster. I hope they are planted deep enough. This is an especial worry with the mint, because the seeds are microscopic and the same colour as the soil. I am becoming distressed.

Our Father, who art in Ombalantu

2006-02-27T09:31:00.000Z

“The boys room, it is not ok”, I said to Father Ethelbert, after shepherding the said boys to their cowshed. I took one look at the bathroom, and I knew all was lost. Something dark streaked the walls, and I’m damn sure it wasn’t water. When we reached the room things deteriorated.

“This room is mostly for little kids”, explained our guide, shamefacedly, as we took in the rickety beds, stained mattresses, and lively resident insect population. Something in the room smelled unpleasant. Job picked up one of the mattresses, gingerly by a corner. “That would be why there are piss stains on the mattresses” he said, bluntly.

“Ahahaha. No, that is only rain water. The roof, it has holes in it.” I slapped a mutant mosquito the size of a small dog off my leg, and looked outside at the gathering storm clouds with despair.

“So, Father, we need to move the boys. Their room it is not ok”. He sat across from me, nodding gently, and stroking his beard.

“This room, it is for small children. We cannot house the small children in the supervisors’ house, because they do not know how to treat things right. They might put newspaper down the toilets”. I thought of the horrors in the dingy bathroom I had just seen and shuddered.

“Yes, but these boys, they are not small children. And they cannot sleep in that room. Can we bring some mattresses over to the supervisors’ house, and they can sleep on the floor?”

Father Ethelbert hummed and hawed. He went into great detail about their responsibility to the people who may own the guest house next time.

“So you see, if we are to put the little children in the supervisors’ house, then if we sell this place, the next people, they will be hearing ‘But Father Ethelbert, he put the little children in the supervisors’ house, so why do you not do it?’, and then they will give us a bad name, because we make their business difficult. Do you understand me?”

I thought perhaps he was being a little too concerned about some imaginary future buyers who may or may not have a problem with putting little children in the supervisors’ house, despite the fact that housing little children in a chilly, damp, foul-smelling cowshed could constitute child abuse, but I chose not to say this for fear that my negotiations would collapse.

“I understand. Of course. But these boys, they are not little children.” I looked over at the five hulking specimens of youth, who sat stony faced, watching Mariah Carey shriek about something on Divine Divas, while the other Father sat quietly waiting for them to leave so that he could watch a badly dubbed Mexican soap called When You Are Mine on NBC, in which everyone swigs tequila, and a man called Diego wanders around with a squirrel on his head, looking constipated, and saying things like “I will resign from Café Telero and return to the hacienda for the sake of my unborn baby. And I will never see Paloma again. But our love will be strong for eternity”.

After some protracted negotiations, Father Ethelbert agreed to give me a discounted price for allowing the boys to sleep on the floor in a spare room in the house. Obstacle one, successfully overcome.

I thought that I was free at this point, but Father Ethelbert had other ideas.

“Come”, he said, as I was about to depart to eat my dinner. “We have much to discuss.”

Apparently, Father Ethelbert had a problem with the fact that our original booking, for which they had received the fax without a hitch, had been for 26 people. It had since been reduced to 21 people, but the fax informing them of the reduction had mysteriously not arrived.

“So you see, we have already bought all of the food, and no-one will eat it, so it must be paid for.”

“That’s no problem Father. We thought that that might be the case in some places, so we are prepared to pay you for 26 people, but we would like to make sure that all the food is provided. These young people, they eat a lot!” I envisioned a mountain of food being attacked and devoured by a rampaging horde of teenagers. I’ve never seen anything like it in my life. They’re like locusts.

Father Ethelbert nodded, and stroked his beard.

“Yes, but do you understand. We had to buy all the food. We didn’t receive a fax saying that the booking had changed. We must now charge you for all the food.”

I agreed once more to pay for 26 people, rather than 21.

“But, do you understand my point of view?” he insisted. “We had to buy all the food…”

I sat there, dumbfounded. I wondered when he was going to get the message that I was prepared to pay for all the food. I was hungry, and I was imagining my dinner being heartily devoured by a horde of rampaging teenagers, intent on nothing but shoveling food into their heads. They invariably left a mess of plates and food all over the floor and the table, despite my protestations, and exhortations to them to ‘clean up after yourselves – where are your manners?’ I found myself wanting to say “Were you raised in a barn?”, and “What about all the starving children in Africa – a family could survive on what you’ve thrown on the floor”, but thought it best to keep that to myself. In any case, I knew that when I finally got there all that would be on offer was a pile of scraps. My stomach growled. I tuned back into Father Ethelbert just as he was earnestly repeating “Do you understand my point of view?”

“Yes! I appreciate your fucking point of view. I’ll pay for the fucking food. Alright? Jesus, Mary and Joseph, will you just shut the fuck up and let me eat my dinner?”

Of course I didn’t say this out loud. I was brought up to be polite. Also, I’ve already managed to offend one Catholic priest since I’ve been here. I thought perhaps another one might doom me to an eternity of fire and brimstone. And earlier in the day I was responsible for overseeing a condom demonstration in the Roman Catholic Mission Hall, so as far as the Catholic Church is concerned, I’m probably skating on thin ice.

So I amid much protesting and ‘do you understand’ing, I wrote Father Ethelbert a cheque in the hope that the sight of the money would actually bring home to him the message that my words were failing to deliver. “May I have an invoice and a receipt?” I asked wearily, as I pushed the money across the table into his waiting hands.

Thus ensued a protracted session of mental arithmetic that went like this:

“Hmm. Five times forty, it is what….”

“Two hundred.”

“Wait, wait. Five times forty…” Scribble, scribble. Cross out. Scribble. “Ah, two hundred. Now, add that to this, what is six times sixty?”

“Three hundred and sixty”.

“Wait. Hmmm.” Scribble, scribble. “Ah, wait. What were we doing before? What is this two hundred? How many people are in the supervisors’ house?”

Many hours later I arrived for my dinner.

It’s a good thing that steamed cabbage is not popular with the youth of Namibia.

On the Road Again

2006-02-17T07:35:00.000Z

I'm off again next week on a road trip. I'm taking another group of 'yoof' on a drama tour around the north of Namibia, just south of the Angolan border. Word from the area is that it's 'fuckin' hot', subject to regular flooding (more expected next week) and riddled with mosquitos. Must remember to take net, although if the last trip is anything to go by, not only will I not have anything to hang it from, I will be sharing it with 20 randy teenagers.

Anyway, I shall be away all week, and may well return sans hair, sans eyes, sans teeth, sans everything.

Inspired by Anna I'd like to try to preserve my sanity by doing a little photo project. I'm a bit fed up of taking photos of endless skies and empty landscapes. I thought I might try and take a picture of every red ribbon I see on my travels, or something like that.

Any suggestions for other themes very welcome.

Errands

2006-02-16T10:03:00.000Z

The woman in the queue behind me has absolutely no concept of personal space. Every time I shift forward to get away from her, she shuffles towards me, nudging my heels with the toes of her shoes, and all but resting her chin on my shoulder. I’m shocked at how distressing I find it. I look desperately around at the counters, two of which are manned, but empty of customers. I move towards one but the woman holds up her hand imperiously, and I am forced to move back to the front of the queue. Finally, when there is no space left for me to shuffle into, I am called up.

“Hello, I’d like to make a deposit into a bank account please.”

He takes the slip and the cheque, and makes random biro marks on the paper. He purses his lips, and types something random into the computer. I know it’s random, because his hands look like someone who’s pretending to be a virtuoso piano player.

“Would you like me to make this money available immediately?”

I’m confused, although something tells me that this should not be a difficult question.

“What do you mean?” I imagine the money sitting in the bank, behind lock and key, for an undisclosed length of time. “Doesn’t it automatically become available when the cheque clears? If I say no, how long will it take?”

“Seven to twenty working days.”

This seems like an inordinate length of time to wait for a cheque to clear, particularly as it’s written from the same bank.

“Do you want to be able to get at the money now?” he asks, with some impatience.

“I don’t know,” I say pathetically, all my decision making powers vanishing in a puff of bewilderment. “It’s not my bank account.” Then a thought occurs to me that can aid me in this troublesome decision.

“Does it cost extra to have it made available immediately?” This isn’t an unreasonable question. The banks charge you for breathing here. They charge you for putting money in, for taking it out, for leaving it there, for moving it around, for using an ATM, for requesting a statement, anything. It’s one of the reasons I haven’t opened a bank account yet. I keep my money in a safe place in my flat. Under the mattress. My mattress doesn’t practice extortion, or provide me with bank statements that are likely to make me homicidal, and then charge me for them.

He ignores my question, and begins sucking his teeth. Then he laughs. “I could normally make the money available immediately because the cheque is from this bank, but actually in this case I can’t.” He laughs again, inexplicably.

“Why can’t you?”

He looks shocked. “I’m afraid I can’t tell you that.”

There’s a short pause, while his wildly flailing hands input more random into the computer system. Then he turns to me and pushes a confirmation slip across the counter.

“You can access the money immediately.”

I resist the temptation to repeat that it’s not my money. “I thought you said you couldn’t do that?”

“Well I did.”

“Did it cost any extra?” I ask, as I tuck the slip into my purse, but he’s already looking past me. “Next!” I am elbowed out of the way by a large woman wielding a leather shopping bag the size of a large springbok.

I leave, feeling slightly confused. For some reason, I am tempted to open an account right now. I can’t explain it, even to myself.

PMA

2006-02-16T06:35:00.000Z

Positive Mental Attitude. Dontcha just love acronyms? My last job was so full of acronyms that you couldn't have a conversation without sounding like a hyperactive corporate executive on a mission to confuse. 'Clare, who are the VFs on the next FEH trip? We need someone who can do ICCE and ECCE, and probably some BS aswell' . It used to take people weeks to get to grips with the goings on in a normal team meeting. This is a world where VIP stands for Visually Impaired Person. That one had me flummoxed for months.

It's the same here. We have the RACOC, the CACOC, RACE, MoSSH, MIB, NGO, CBO, NACOP, NANASO, AAC, etc. etc. It still doesn't seem right to be referring to actual people as OVCs (Orphans and Vulnerable Children) or PLWHAs (People Living With HIV and AIDS). Talk about depersonalising everything.

As you might be able to tell, at the moment, as far as I'm concerned, PMA stands for Pre Menstrual Anger. I am feeling evil.

My colleague in the corner has just discovered the RealPlayer on her laptop, and has borrowed half a million R’n’B CDs from our new receptionist.

I hate R’n’B. I can’t help it. It prompts some kind of chemical reaction in my brain that short circuits the usual neural pathways and turns me into Tension Lady – She Can Break Computers Just By Looking At Them! (TL - SCBCJBYAT!) It took me almost a minute of strenuous thought to remember the word ‘acronym’ just now, because some woman is warbling tunelessly about her baby at a volume not quite loud enough for me to hear properly.

I can’t ask her to turn it off, because she normally puts up with my music without complaint. Today, however, I’m sorely tempted to ramp up the tension by putting on the Killers. And then running amok with a sharpened pencil.

I have to get out of here before my head explodes.

Witchcraft and Wizardry

2006-02-15T12:07:00.000Z

Notice under Monday’s Health and Beauty classifieds section of the Namibian (I would have posted it sooner, but Blogger decided to play hard to get for 72 hours):

DR ZUMBE. He’s a strong doctor who can treat/solve your problems within a week. –Unfaithful partner, liver problems, diabetes. You want a baby? Get one now! Weak penis. Cell…..

I’m curious – I know there are plenty of people of both sexes out there who badly want to have children. Also there are many reasons that they may not necessarily be able to – lack of fertility in one party or the other, lack of willingness on behalf of the other party, lack of other party, etc, etc. Perhaps he is intending to impregnate all comers himself; perhaps even though he has a weak penis, he has strong sperm, although this combination could present logistical problems. Turkey baster anyone?

Also, how does he plan to bypass the usual nine-month gestation period? It made me wonder whether there has been a spate of baby-kidnappings that would indicate stock-piling in anticipation of the inevitable stampede of impatient, infant-hungry clients, but I can’t see anything in the paper to cause alarm.

I’d also be interested to know quite how he hopes to cure someone of an unfaithful partner within a week. I’m assuming, in all seriousness, that he intends to use some form of witchcraft.

Whatever action he takes, it must be pretty drastic. Unfaithfulness is so de rigeur here that, were I single, I would probably avoid entering into a relationship with a Namibian man, black or white. I know that sounds harsh, and possibly even racist (if you’re going to be picky about it), but in a country where at least one person in five is HIV positive, and young men are generally considered limp, testosterone-deficient pussies if they don’t have at least three girlfriends dotted around the country, I just don’t know if I’d be prepared to take the risk, emotional or physical*.

There are usually three or four of these ads in every day, promising everything from ‘tightening of woman’s parts’ to ‘casting out of tokoloshes’. Thankfully, it’s been a while since I spotted one that claimed to be able to cure AIDS.

Anyway, I’m thinking about giving Dr Zumba a call. I wonder if he would be able to sort out a mysterious spirit that seems to have invaded our office. It appears to subsist solely on a diet of forks and bic biros*. Not only can I not write, I am having to eat my leftover spaghetti with a teaspoon.

*I realise that this is a controversial statement, and I am doubtless unintentionally maligning a large number of decent, honourable people. However, I am a foreigner in a country where I don't yet, and may never fully understand the cultural implications of alot of my actions, or the actions of other people where they pertain to me. And I've seen enough to be very, very wary.

**I did, in fact, find the missing bic biros the other day when I was driving the Condom Estate to a meeting. I pulled down the flappy shady thing (what are they called?), and there they all were, lined up as if for military inspection. Don’t ask me why.

Driving Miss Crazy

2006-02-09T13:27:00.000Z

There is yet another report of a fatal collision in the paper today. It seems as if there are accidents like this every day at the moment. They always read something like:

‘A young mother and her two children aged 2 months and 3 years were killed today in a collision in Ongwediva. The accident occurred when a Toyota Tazz and a bakkie collided at traffic lights/an intersection/on a blind bend”.

It constantly amazes, and terrifies me the extent to which you take your life in your hands every time you drive on Namibia’s roads. I know the suicide rate here is high, but really, there are less selfish ways to end it all than overtaking before the brow of a hill and taking a bus full of priests and schoolkids with you on an extended vacation into oblivion, via the fiery path of vehicular immolation. Perhaps these fuckwits like idea of having company on their final journey.

People here either drive recklessly fast, or as if they have had their brains removed and replaced with little tiny pieces of biltong. They hare up behind you at a gazillion miles an hour, wait until you start to wonder if they’ve somehow become entangled in your back bumper, and then they veer off towards the oncoming traffic with a look of steely determination on their faces. At least, I used to think it was steely determination. Now I just think that they paint eyes on their lids and have a quick snooze when the endless driving all gets too dreary.

When I was driving around the country with Dan, the first day we departed from Windhoek I nearly got driven off the road by a combi* full of passengers coming round a corner doing 160km per hour on the wrong side of the road.

Combis terrify me. I got in one to go to Swakopmund at Christmas and ended up actually praying for my life. And I don’t believe in God. The only other time I’ve ever done that was when I found myself in the middle of a ferocious electric storm, while sharing a small plane from Trinidad to Tobago with 21 teary Irish travel agents. Every time lightning zigged outside the window the girl next to me wailed ‘Mother of God, we’re all going to die’, while I sat with my head between my knees, dribbling with terror, and muttering ‘please god, if we get back in one piece, I’ll become a rampaging evangelist’. Another promise broken. I’m going to hell. No doubt about it.

Anyway, the combi ride was on a par. We whizzed around one corner, the sides of our faces squashed attractively against the windows by centrifugal force, and lo and behold, a combi lay belly up by the side of the road, little wheels spinning. Bodies flung from inside lay covered in blankets as groups of people stood around helplessly waiting for the ambulances to arrive. There’s no such thing as rubbernecking in Namibia. People just pull over, and wander around, poking at the corpses with their feet and snacking.

People are also allowed to drive cars that are in an advanced state of decreptitude. One of my friends was telling me that the front of his car, which is a bit crumpled, came under police inspection when he was up north a while ago. The policewoman leaned down, and squinted at the front of the car in dismay, and then called over a colleague. He had visions of having to pay a small fortune to make the thing roadworthy again. Instead, after a bit of poking, they extracted a dead bird from the grille, and waved him on his way.

I don’t have a car in Namibia, which is fine. I can’t afford one because for some reason they keep their value, and nothing sells for less than a couple of thousand pounds unless it has no wheels, or half an engine or something. However, my bloke does have one, and he has to drive around in it a lot. He’s a great driver, but plenty of people on the road do drive as if they think they’re behind the wheel of a bag of cotton wool with a built-in 007 turbo booster, and it does worry me that in this place, you’re at the mercy of other people’s reckless idiocy.

*A minibus packed to the rafters with people, and then manned by a wannabe kamikaze fighter pilot with an incurable addiction to SMSing on the move.

Vindicated

2006-02-02T09:22:00.000Z

I was right. The Namibian really couldn't top the Top Ten famous people and their allergies. In fact, they seem to be in rather a slump. I'm tempted to call them and ask them what they think they're playing at, the lazy arse bastards. Here are this weeks' top ten trivia facts:

Tuesday: Some little known facts about words
Wednesday: More little known facts about words
Thursday: Even more little known facts about words

Now I know it's nice to know that, apparently, Shakespeare invented the word Assassination (although I am somewhat sceptical about this), and that John Milton used 8,000 words in Paradise Lost. I feel enriched, I really do. Being informed that Bill Clinton, Bill Gates and Gerard Depardieu have photographic memories is interesting, although confusing, in the given context.

But they're hardly out there pounding the streets for interesting and amusing snippets to help us through our day, are they? What happened to the glory days of pig counting?

Does anyone have any suggestions for other top ten facts that I could provide them with as inspiration?

Pop your entries in the box. Most interesting wins a prize. Maybe.

Top Trivia

2006-01-30T12:44:00.000Z

Every day the Namibian publishes a ‘Top Ten’ list for the edification of its audience.

Last week’s highlight: Top ten countries by number of pigs.

I’m assuming this is from some regular worldwide pig census, probably carried out by undercover CIA agents investigating the threat of a real life Animal Farm event. In any case, China’s sties ahead with almost half a billion porkers, and the US drags itself, wheezing, into second place with 60 million. I’ve always had rather a fondness for char siu buns. Go China!

This week (I know it’s only Monday, but I’m not sure how they can top this): Famous people and their allergies. Did you know that Iggy Pop is allergic to milk?

The road to enlightenment is paved with such treasures of trivia and inconsequential gobbets of insight. Trust me.

I feel more serene already.

Water, water, everywhere...

2006-01-26T07:18:00.000Z

Hmmm. Since yesterday, someone has told me that Windhoek had more than six days of rain last year. Well, I have some facts. Last year, in January, which is supposedly the rainy season, Windhoek received a scant, but fairly standard 67.8 mm of rain. The average annual rainfall in Windhoek is 360mm. A week ago, the rainfall for January had reached almost 300mm. Yesterday, so much rain fell on the city that the sluice gates of the Avis Dam opened up automatically – an extraordinarily unusual event – and released a wild, angry river complete with jumping fish and whole trees into the dry river bed that runs through the west of the city.

It was phenomenal to watch. I went up there last night, along with many people for whom the sight of a river is about as common as a white Christmas. There was almost a carnival atmosphere; the place was full of kids and dogs. I’m surprised there wasn’t a hot dog stand.

My boyfriend (not sure how to refer to him really – Lover? Paramour? Love interest? Personal Slave? Hmmm… Will have to give this some consideration) experienced a flash flood out at his farm yesterday. I saw the pictures. That’s a lot of water. He discovered scary, carnivorous, duck-devouring tortoises in a small pond out the back of the house the other day, but now the tortoises have been released into the wild, and from here on in we will be hearing tales of mysterious disappearing water fowl across the region. It’s like something out of a horror-disaster movie. For ducks.

There doesn’t seem to be any kind of scheme to manage all this water. I know that it’s an unusual occurrence, but surely, in a country so short on water, this abundance should prompt a flurry of conservation. However, this doesn’t seem to be the case. The water that is released is simply lost, and by the time the rain stops – and when it does, we won’t see any more until the end of the year - we will all be sitting here again, worrying about the dropping water levels in the dams that supply the city’s drinking water.

Mind you, judging from a recent headline in the Namibian, it’s not the dropping water levels in the dams that we should be worrying about. It’s the rising floaters.

Glorious British Weather

2006-01-25T14:10:00.000Z

It seems to be raining a bit here at the moment.

Last year, apparently, Windhoek had six days of rain. This year so far we've had nineteen straight, and there's no sign of it letting up. The city is a maze of little rivers. Cars driving along the roads look like jet-ski joyriders, throwing walls of water five feet up in the air as they pass by. Rain here isn't nice, delicate pitter-pattery rain. Oh no. It decapitates garden flowers, and strips the paint from cars*.

I'm sitting in an office that has only two small windows. The light is a 40 watt bulb, and it's practically dark outside thanks to the thick layers of cloud bunching up over the city, waiting until everyone is lulled into a false sense of security by a five minute hiatus before they drop a ton of water onto the rooftops in the space of 2.4 seconds.

Namibia has an ad campaign that promises '300 days of sunshine'. Egypt had one too, for the Red Sea coast. It said something like "The land of eternal sunshine", and promised year-round opportunities for pale British folk to turn themselves into scrofulous lobsters. If you've ever been to the Red Sea in December you'll know that it's about as tropical as Great Yarmouth. I had to cut short a snorkelling expedition in Ras Mohammed National Park because they were all showing symptoms of hypothermia. Anyway, I digress. 300 days of sunshine probably isn't far wrong, although at the moment, it doesn't feel that way.

Anyway, the thing that concerns me right now is that I'm wearing flip flops, a t-shirt and a skirt, and it's pissing it down outside in a manner that would put Wales to shame.

I'm going to get very, very wet, and quite cold on my way home.

*Don't get me wrong. It's a very good thing. Rainfall in Namibia is extremely limited, and access to water is a major problem.

Walkies

2006-01-20T09:00:00.000Z

Yesterday I took Boris for a walk. People have been telling me I should do this ever since I decided that our relationship was secure enough that I could start introducing him to my friends. They are all concerned that he never seems to escape the confines of the house and ‘garden’, and must frolic fatly amongst the flowers that line the concrete driveway. I think they also see his mournful, hopeful eyes, and think that all he really wants is a chance to see the outside world, briefly, before he keels over from excitement.

So, yesterday evening, when it became apparent that the heavens were not going to open, I clipped on a borrowed lead, and dragged him out of the gate. We stopped to chat to David, the security guard next door, who asked me where I was taking the dog. As Boris wound the lead tightly around my ankles in confusion, I responded that I was going to take him for a walk. I’m not sure how much of the sentence he managed to catch, as I had to twirl around several times while talking to ensure the continuation of the flow of blood to my feet.

‘You are not afraid of the guns?’
‘No’, I said. I mean, I am, obviously afraid of men with guns, but I would be surprised if any jumped out at me in broad daylight on a quiet residential street. ‘Should I be?’
‘Well, sometimes it can be dangerous, but I think maybe if they see you have a dog, they will be scared.’

We looked doubtfully at the dog, as he lay, belly up, little legs waving hopefully, his eyes imploring us to stroke his stomach.

I bid David goodbye, dragged Boris from his prone position, and resolutely set off, convinced that I was going to have to drag him the whole way. I had underestimated him. He set off down the road at speed, almost yanking my shoulder out of its socket. As we sped down the hill, a million neighbourhood dogs howled in our wake.

I can just tell that dog walking is going to be a challenge.

Happy Birthday to Me

2006-01-18T14:53:00.000Z

Oh yea! Here ye, here ye!

Today, it be the day of my birth, some 32 billion years ago, in a murky pond full of amoebas just waiting to evolve into me. That’s how old I am. I am starting to realize that I can no longer really describe myself as a girl. I am definitely now a grown up woman [gasp!], at least in size and age, if not in psychological maturity, as I’m sure the amoebas will agree, as they await their turn, and look on enviously from their sulphurous pool.

Unfortunately for me, I can also be described as a spinster, a word that I always think makes women sound vaguely like a dusty jar of gherkins that Auntie Maud brought for Christmas in 1964 and which, after the first couple of nibbles, nobody has ever felt like extracting from the morass of cobwebs attaching it firmly to the shelf. I don’t feel like a spinster though, so that’s ok. [brushes cobweb off sleeve].

Anyway, my birthday has been lovely so far, thanks to the delivery of fresh coffee and mango that greeted me when I woke up this morning. I hope that it will continue to be so.

I think I’m going to like being 32 in Namibia, just as long as nobody decorates my birthday cake with mopane worms.

32 things

2006-01-17T15:02:00.000Z

1.I used to want to wear glasses so badly when I was a child that I tried to fake eyesight tests regularly until I was about 12.
2.I practically never wear makeup – I just never got into the habit.
3.I joined the parascending club at university.
4.But I only went once.
5.I’m afraid of slugs.
6.Oh for god’s sake. Am I only at number 6? How can I possibly think up 32 things that will be of any interest to anyone?

The short answer is, I can’t. Be bothered. It bores even me.

So I think I’m going to throw it out there, to my many millions of readers (I feel sure that my statcounter is mistaken. I know that there are more than three of you.)

If you feel the hand of inspiration on your shoulder, please do make up some salacious or fascinating facts about me to add to this woefully short list. It is my birthday tomorrow, after all, which is why I started this hopeless exercise in narcissism to begin with.

I might start you off…

1.I used to be a hugely famous as a porn star. My screen name was Julie Buckets.
2.I play 14 different musical instruments to concert level.
3.I’m a qualified plumber.
4.My left foot is two sizes larger than my right.
5.My hearing is so acute that the government have employed me on top-secret surveillance missions in several highly dangerous locations.
6.I am allergic to paper.
7.Four and a half years ago I had the left side of my brain removed and donated to medical science.
8.I have six fingers on each hand.
9.I once got caught smuggling plutonium into Siberia. I used my mastery of disguises to fool the guards into thinking I was the Dalai Lama, and escaped unharmed.
10. …….

Ta ta. I'm off home to make a curry.

And again...

2006-01-12T07:31:00.000Z

My sister has tagged me, and although I’ve done a meme recently, I thought it might be rude not to oblige her, seeing as I’ve been so rubbish at keeping in contact so I’ve done it. This is the last one though.

1. What did you do in 2005 that you hadn't done before?

Ooh, 2005 has been a veritable cornucopia of new experiences. However, sitting in a bandstand eating a dried caterpillar has to come top of the list.

2. Did anyone close to you give birth?

A staggering number of people. My friend Mel, to the lovely Jack, my sister in law to my gorgeous nephew, my ex-boyfriend’s wife-to-be, a colleague at my last job, the list goes on. It seems like every other day someone is sending me photos of babies looking adorable having been posed in various amusing ways. But it doesn’t make me feel reproductively inadequate in any way, I’d like to stress. Not at all.

3. Did anyone close to you die?

Thankfully, no. I’ve placed an embargo on people close to me dying. No more for me, thanks.

4. Did you travel? Where did you go?

I travelled a great deal between Cambridge and London, and so got to know the carpets on the floor of the 18.15 out of Kings Cross with an intimacy I hadn’t thought was possible.

5. Best thing you bought?

My iPod. All hail the iPod. If it ever left me, I’m not sure I would get over it.

6. Where did most of your money go?

You’ve no idea how sincerely I wish I could answer that.

7. What do you wish you had done more of?

Sitting in front of crappy daytime TV, eating fish finger sandwiches with a glass of cold milk.

8. What do you wish you had done less of?

Smoking. And picking my nose. Although I have to say that the dry climate of Namibia makes for very agreeable crusty bogeys, and nose-picking doesn’t seem to be taboo here so I think I’ll just continue with that revolting, but terribly satisfying habit.

9. What kept you sane?

I’m not sure anything did. The jury’s still out.

10. What drove you mad?

My friend Dan insisting on trying to get out of the car in the middle of Etosha National Park, because ‘there are more animals in Whipsnade’. I had just persuaded him not to, when a lion walked past the car door. His response? “Stop bleating at me, woman”.

11. What made you celebrate?

All of the planes I travelled on in 2005 not crashing. Oh, and the birth of my nephew of course.

12. What made you sad?

Snow Patrol. Could a successful band be any more boring?

13. How was your birthday this year?

I’ve also put an embargo on birthdays. I’m not having one in 2006 either. They seem to insist on hurtling me closer to forty at a speed that would challenge Einstein’s Theory of Relativity.

14. What political issue stirred you the most this year?

The supply of drinking fountains for London’s thirsty pigeons. I can’t understand why it’s not more of a priority with the Labour government.

15. Were you in love in 2005?

Oh, gosh. Yes.

16. What would you like to have in 2006 that you didn't have this year?

A flat stomach. And a little wooden house on a tiny Malaysian island, where I can pick fresh mangoes from the tree outside my bedroom, eat spicy food all day, and lie in the hammock on my veranda, counting exotic birds.

17. What date from 2005 will be etched in your memory and why?

July 7th, I think. My shoe broke, I seem to remember, on the way to work. That kind of thing will tend to stick in the memory.

18. What song will remind you of 2005?

K T Tunstall’s Other Side of the World. Apt, and yet not.

19. Compared to this time last year are you happier?

Yup.

20. Biggest achievement this year?

Hey, I’m living in Namibia. What more do you want?

21. Biggest disappointment this year?

Not meeting Bill Murray at the premiere of Broken Flowers. Bastard didn’t show up.

22. What is the one thing that would have made you more satisfied?

The Criminal Records Bureau not being a bunch of bureaucratically obsessed, postally challenged, lying, mendacious wankers.

23. Best new person you met this year?

Oooh. Now there’s a question. I’ve met loads of brilliant people this year, mostly through VSO. But it would have to be one I’m in love with. Because he’s a bit of alright, really.

24. A valuable life lesson you learnt this year?

Chocolate biscuits are good for the soul.

25. A question you made up yourself?

Penguins?

Feel free to do it if you fancy. Let me know if you do though, because I'm a nosey old cow.

Back on the boil again

2006-01-11T08:16:00.000Z

For the last few months, since I started at my place of work, in fact, I have been deprived of a displacement activity so central to my very being that for a while wondered how I could possibly function without it: walking around the office on a refreshment run, boiling the kettle and making tea.

There’s something so calming about a quiet stroll around, saying hello to people, and being sociable. And the words “Anyone want a cuppa?” are like a soothing balm on my soul. Meditating just doesn’t quite give me the same feeling of serenity.

The only kettle in a hundred yard radius is defunct. It blew up the week before I arrived, and has not been replaced. I’ve been wandering aimlessly, my hand occasionally reaching out for a cup of non-existent tea, only to fall, empty and defeated back on to the keyboard. It’s been a sorry sight to behold.

But now, we have a new kettle! It boils water! It makes tea! My life is immeasurably improved. I just went on a beverage run, and used the kettle for the first time. It’s wonderful. I can tell that my productivity is going to soar.

The only catch is that in our tiny, 2 foot square kitchen, there is no plug socket. The only one close by is at shoulder height on the wall in the reception area. For now there is something on which to balance it, but once the enormous piles of ‘Caring Namibian Man’ 2006 calendars have been removed to a place of storage, making tea will involve standing, foolishly holding the kettle while it boils. That is unless I can invent a nifty kettle-levitation device beforehand, but honestly, I’m so involved with mastering papier maché at the moment that the chances are slim. Looking on the bright side though, I can see this will give much opportunity for small talk with office colleagues passing through the area.

In any case, I have before me a comforting cup of rooibos tea, for which I have slowly developed a liking. All I need now is a chocolate biscuit.

Daydream believer

2006-01-10T13:30:00.000Z

This morning I arose, bleary eyed, turned on Radio Wave (Namibia’s Number One Hit Station!) to listen to Jared and Mags, the Waking Crew, to whom I have become addicted, despite Jared’s clear and measured descent into insanity. Today, apropos of nothing, he conducted an apoplectic rant about people who attend polo matches.

Most of the time, the pair just bicker, or run embarrassingly long advertorials about tefal pans. The whole of December was dedicated to tefal pans, and to their credit, I’ve never heard two people sound so genuinely awed by kitchen ware. In addition to this nonsense, there’s an advert that gets played at least three times every half hour, which goes:

Woman, in honeyed tones: “Mmmmmm. Morning honey. What would you like for breakfast?”
Man, clearly far too used to the current status quo “Aaaaaah. I think I’ll have some eggs, and some Windhoek Schlachterei sausage.”
Woman once more, so sweetly, you can almost see her putting on her gingham apron: “Anything for my hugglebump. What kind of Windhoek Schlachterei sausage?”

They also play a bizarrely eclectic selection of music. Yesterday I left the house to the strains of Led Zeppelin, but other mornings it’s wall to wall Mariah Carey. They went through a stage where they played Alanis Morisette’s entire back catalogue so repeatedly that I thought I was going to have to change my allegiance to Radio Kudu, but thankfully they are now over it.

Anyway, at 6.45am I was easing myself into my morning in the company of this dependable duo, trying to avoid the pan full of wallpaper paste while I spread my marmalade on my toast, when I looked out of my patio doors to see Mrs Uncle Janni, who is about 70, stomping determinedly in circles around the driveway, in the rain, wearing a housecoat, a shower cap and a pair of brogues.

I sometimes wonder if I’m going to wake up, like Pammy Ewing, in my little room in Cambridge, having dreamed the last four months in their entirety.

Creativity be damned

2006-01-10T09:55:00.000Z

When I was younger, I remember making papier maché things out of bits of newspaper and balloons. I don’t really remember what the things were. I just remember enjoyably, messily, sticking the bits of newspaper in wallpaper paste, and stroking them lovingly onto a balloon. I was creative. Oh yes.

I’m starting to realise that the reason I have no idea what I was making, is that the wallpaper paste took so bloody long to dry that my younger, shorter attention span had long moved on to something else. Like University.

My current project has been drying since Saturday. Globs of wallpaper paste have been making their slow, glacial way down the sides of the construction for days. I expected, by now, to have a nice bowl, which I could paint, and make pretty, and then put things in. But no. I just have a kitchen table covered with piles of paper strips and bowls full of gloop. I’m having to construct my meals in an arena of newsprint. Yesterday, I almost started eating my spaghetti with a spoon covered in non-toxic adhesive.

It’s soul destroying. I’ve known for some years that I am imaginatively and creatively challenged, but I thought that papier maché would not be beyond the limits of my ability.

What am I doing wrong?

For Sale...

2006-01-06T05:56:00.000Z

...one cold and windy city.

Can anyone explain this to me? I am baffled.

Poles apart...

2006-01-06T05:52:00.000Z

A word of advice.

Should any of you out there, and I’m speaking to the girls here, have a friend who decides, for their hen night celebrations, to book pole-dancing lessons, bear in mind that while this might be all jolly good fun at the time, one day you will find yourself in a bar that serves tequila, and which has handily placed steel poles attaching one of the tables to the ceiling. You will feel them calling to you, urging you to show the assembled (although thankfully sparse) clientele your highly professional skills. It will be impossible to resist.

This is Not A Good Thing, as the photos that I found on my camera on Christmas morning will attest.

Last post of the year... possibly.

2005-12-22T12:21:00.000Z

The last few days have been difficult. Occasionally I feel as if I’m achieving absolutely nothing here, and I keep having to tell myself that things don’t happen all at once, and that I have only been here for three months*. This week has been particularly frustrating, because I’m alone at the moment, as everyone else has gone on holiday.

Apart from that, I feel very far away from everyone I love, and I can’t help wishing that I could see my friends and family, just a little a bit, for Christmas. I don’t go in for moping. It’s a waste of time. But still, I miss them.

Also, I had a disturbing dream last night: giant maggots were attacking me because I was trying to steal their dinner (a dead horse; don’t question me about the workings of my subconscious – I am as confused as you are). The dream may have something to do with the maggot infestation I found merrily heaving about in my bin the other day.

It reminded me of the time our neighbours in Malaysia gave us a jackfruit as a welcome gift. We didn’t know what to do with it, so we left it next to the sink for a couple of weeks. It looked fine, but when we picked it up, inside was a maggot metropolis. There were so many of the damn things I swear they had probably constructed an elaborate network of offices and flats. It was like London Bridge on a sunny weekday morning. Swarming.

Anyway, I felt a bit shaken when I woke up this morning, and had to check that all my limbs were in tact.

Hopefully the New Year will blow in a whole new barrel of optimism, and un-maggotty dreams, and the cobwebs of uselessness will be caught up and cast into the huge, cloudless sky, never to be seen again.

Anyway, I’m not whinging, because as of tomorrow I’m on holiday again, with some friends from Katima and Ondangwa. We’re going to the coast.

I hope you all have a marvellous Christmas. And a very festive New Year. For the first time in a good few years, I hope to be seeing in 2006 with a stonking hangover.

See you all in the New Year.

*This is when the other little voice in my head chips in and starts saying things like “Three months? That’s practically a life time….”

Me me me...

2005-12-20T14:37:00.000Z

I am very, very bored. I have been reduced to playing desultorily with a bit of blu-tak that I found stuck to my desk yesterday.

Fortunately for the blu-tak, I found this at Birdy’s and I almost laughed with glee. It’s a meme! Hurrah. They’re always a good excuse for time wasting.

I forgot to put this bit in yesterday:

Welcome to the 2005 edition of getting to know your friends. What you are supposed to do is copy this entire blog entry (although perhaps not the bit about the blu-tak) and paste it onto a new blog entry that you'll post. Change all the answers so they apply to you, and then publish. Leave a comment if you do this.The theory is that you will learn a lot of little (random) things about your friends, if you did not know them already.

What time did you get up this morning?
6.30. Don’t ask me why I am suddenly able to do this. In the UK, getting out of bed before 8 used to elicit wails of despair. It could be because now my usual bed-time is 9pm. Unless I have a particularly exciting bit of jigsaw to finish off.

Diamonds or pearls?
Diamonds. Actually, I like pearls – they’re softer and prettier, but they can be a bit ‘old-lady’-ish, something I try increasingly hard to avoid, in case I wake up one morning with an uncontrollable urge to put on tweed and a pair of sensible shoes, and go out looking for the village murderer behind churchyard walls.

What was the last film you saw at the cinema?
Lord of War. It would have been more enjoyable if the projectionist had bothered to focus the film for the middle 45 minutes, but still.

What is your favourite TV show?
CSI. Love it. Especially Warrick. Mmmmm.

What do you usually have for breakfast?
Toast. I’m supposed to say something healthy like fruit. I did start off well – I ate loads of yoghurt and fruit for breakfast in my first month here. But now it’s toast and marmalade, and fresh coffee.

Favourite cuisine?
Thai. Bit of a bummer – you wouldn’t believe how difficult it is to get hold of fresh coriander here.

What food do you dislike?
Blancmange.

What is your favourite CD at the moment?
KT Tunstall – Eye to the Telescope. Or the Zutons.

Morning or night person?
Depends on whether or not I have a hangover.

Favourite sandwich?
Bacon. Or Fish-finger. Both with ketchup.

What characteristic do you despise?
I'm with Birdy on this one. Bigotry.

Favourite item of clothing?
A bright pink corduroy skirt with blue flowers printed up the side. I will cry when it finally wears out.

If you could go anywhere in the world on vacation, where would it be?
Japan. Which is nice because my friend has just been posted there for three years, so if I ever get enough money for the flight, I’m off.

What colour is your bathroom?
A kind of grim sandy colour, with tiles that show up every single bit of dirt. Also, the mirror, which is nice and large, is covered in toothpaste splatters. It must be someone else. I’m very neat with my spitting.

Favourite brand of clothing?
Brand?

Where would you retire to?
If I could retire right now? I don’t think I would.

What was your most memorable birthday?
Oh god. There have been so many.

Favourite sport to watch?
Gymnastics. It’s so graceful.

Who do you least expect to complete this?
Everyone.

What is your shoe size?
7. Having large, wide feet, I was cursed with ugly shoes for the duration of my school career. Once when I was six, I deliberately left a pair of really hideous shoes under the benches in the girls changing rooms at school. For weeks I denied that they were mine, and my mother finally reclaimed them one parents’ evening. And made me continue wearing them. Oh, I did have a pair of red pixie boots when I was 14. I loved those.

Pets?
Boris.

Any new and exciting news you'd like to share with us?
I have news, but I’m not sure I want to share it yet.

What did you want to be when you were little?
An astronaut. I can’t remember why he would have been able to do this, but when I was very young, my Dad sometimes used to bring me home amazing close up photographs of the surface of the moon. I wonder where they went. I turned out to be a bit of a dunce at maths though.
I also wanted to be a writer.

What is your favourite flower?
Sweet pea.

What date on the calendar are you looking forward to?
12 January 2005.

One word to describe the person who you snaffled this from?
Inspiring

If anyone is anywhere near as bored, and devoid of stuff to do as me, please feel free to nick this and do it. Now I have to go and try to extricate a small lump blu-tak from my hair. Excuse me.

phphphpht

2005-12-20T13:22:00.000Z

Has anyone else noticed that Santa is an anagram of Satan? I'm sure that, every year, I think I'm the only person to notice this. It still amuses me though.

Also, last night I noticed that pigeons here may be prettier, less flea-ridden, and less likely to take your arm off for a piece of sandwich than in London, but they sound strange. I keep thinking it's the neighbours having sex, but it's just a combination of Boris snorting, and the pigeons honking in the tree outside.

This is Boris.

He's my dog. My inherited dog. I don't count him as my neighbour's dog, because all they do is feed him and ignore him. The poor love is starved of affection.

He gets very excited whenever I come home, and leaps out of the shadows, barking like the guard dog he definitely isn't. He shows his delight at my presence by pissing on my bicycle on a daily basis.

He also brought me a lovely flower the other day that he'd uprooted from the flower bed, and which he had clearly spent all afternoon flinging around in an attempt get the dirt off. Most of the petals had come off too, but it was a nice thought.

I quite like Boris, even though when he rolls over to be tickled, he always shows off his rather unsettling, mishapen pink penis, which means that most tickling lasts a limited amount of time, and is accompanied by the words "Put it away Boris." He also snorts in a way I've never heard any dog do before. Sometimes I wonder about his provenance.

Boris has been helping me do my jigsaw. He does this by sitting with his head on my foot, and slapping his tail against the patio doors every time I start singing along to music. I noticed this yesterday - it's quite flattering.

He also makes me feel safe at night. Although I know that he would never, in a million years, attack a burglar, I have begun to find his habit of running around the house and barking throughout the night quite comforting.

So, that's Boris. I thought I'd hate him, but I don't. He's quite sweet really.

Christmas musings

2005-12-20T13:00:00.000Z

I’ve only ever spent two Christmases away from the bosom of my family.

The first one was the Christmas of 1998, the last before my father died. I spent it with my ex, in our bijoux flat in New Cross; we were joined by our friend Flip. We spent months filling up the ~~hamper~~ cardboard box under the coffee table with food and drink. It took us almost as many months to get through it all.

For the first time ever, I had my own stocking. In it was a yo-yo and an orange. We drank a lot of gin and tonic, even more champagne, and after making ourselves sick on a dinner of roast duck, followed by Stilton, we calmed our churning stomachs with port.

It was clear and crisp outside, and the trees – recently ~~pruned~~ mutilated by the council didn’t look as brutally stunted as they had during the autumn, when all the other trees still had branches. We danced on the sofa a lot. It was great.

The second one was in 2001. I was in Egypt, leading a group of Christmas-hating holidaymakers through the Western Desert. As they persisted in telling me, their getaway was precisely that - an attempt to flee the horror of the festive period. They’d paid for a week free of Santa, and that was that. It didn’t seem to make any difference to them that I hadn’t.

The Western Desert is beautiful, and was one of my favourite trips, but this time I was, rather unfortunately, lumbered with a driver who had clearly missed his career niche as a vodka-fuelled clown in the Russian circus, a bus with too few seats, and a woman called Penny who seemed incapable of listening to anything I said*.

Christmas Eve dawned bright and hot. Determined not to be deprived of all hope of seasonal enjoyment, I had sneakily purchased two bottles of Omar Khayyam red wine, at great expense, while in Luxor. We squeezed ourselves, with difficulty, into our mini-bus, and drove, squabbling over leg and elbow room, to the market. I should really have learned the words for ‘cinnamon’ and ‘cloves’ before getting to the shop, and after being offered with increasing bemusement a selection of goods including tinned salmon and washing power, I just started sniffing the spices myself. They must have thought I was completely mad.

So that night, in our cosy camp, we sat around and I made a triumphant mulled wine over the fire. It was marvellous. Salah, our driver, came along too. Although by this time I’d become completely sick of his constant lateness, bad driving** and regular disappearing acts, the group seemed to have taken him to heart. They seemed to find our conversations amusing. I don’t know why; they routinely went like this:

“Salah, we’ve been waiting here for almost forty-five minutes, the police have got bored and gone to look for you – where on earth have you been?”
“Ah, my watch/shoe/belt/wallet broke and I had to fix it. Then we had a coffee and a smoke. You have very beautiful eyes.”
“Thanks. Can we go now? And next time, please don’t disappear – we’re really late.”
“M’ish mishkela, m’ish mishkela***, you are very lovely”.
“Don’t mish mishkela me, there is a bloody mishkela. And you’re not going to get anywhere by complimenting me. And I’m not lovely - I’m fed up”.
He’d then look at me mournfully, sigh, get in the bus, and drive us to some shop or other owned by his uncle, where he’d stop, and refuse to drive any more until we had bought something.

The sight of him dancing maniacally around the campfire, fuelled by mulled wine, his beer belly drooping attractively over his a semi-transparent white sarong will stay with me forever.

Christmas Day was even better. There’s an extremely old Christian cemetery that looks over the encroaching sand dunes just outside Kharga. It dates from around the 3rd Century AD, when the Roman emperor Diocletian decided to expel all Christians from the empire. Many of them came to this empty, seemingly god-forsaken place to escape persecution, and for centuries they buried their dead in the necropolis. Because it never, ever rains there, it's fantastically well preserved. One guide I had used to insist on going down in to the crypts and bringing up ancient corpses until I asked him to stop.

Anyway, I made my group gather in the crumbling, mud-brick church, I forced them to sing Christmas carols for me until I was satisfied, and I let them go.

I wonder what this Christmas will bring?

*“Please make sure you go to the bank before we leave Luxor as we might not be able to go in Kharga” – witness spending four hours in various banks on 23 December, in Kharga Oasis – an ugly town of staggering parochialism - trying to cash a cheque, while Salah and Samir, our police escort, disappeared, never to be seen again, into a coffee shop and the rest of my group mooched around sulkily.
“Don’t stray too far from the camp, and try not to sleep in any vehicle tracks – ha ha!” – witness spending an hour next morning frantically searching the desert before finding her curled up in a landrover track some half mile distant.

** On our way back to Cairo, I awoke from a brief doze, to find an unearthly, terrified silence reigning over the bus. Looking around, I realised that we were hurtling along the highway at breakneck speed, driverless, and Salah was nowhere to be seen. I was convinced for a second that he had finally had enough, and hurled himself from the moving vehicle. Then I realised that he was driving with one arm, while conducting a long search under the passenger seat for a bag of pretzels.

***No problem

Thirsty?

2005-12-16T14:53:00.000Z

We left Swakopmund early, to avoid the heat. The cool Atlantic breeze feathered in through the windows as we headed south along the coast to Walvis Bay, and the day spread out before us in all its glory. We were light-hearted. We sang.

Then we headed inland, into the Namib desert, and things warmed up a little.

By midday, all the bottled water in the car was almost at boiling point.

By one, we had a dilemma – to keep the windows open and hope the hot, dusty air would cool our sweat, or close the window to avoid the bulk of the dust and rely on the hot, dusty air filtering in through the ventilation holes*.

By two, we were no longer speaking. Sweating and grunting was all we were capable off, and not in a good way.

After what seemed like hours of being slowly broiled in a light coating of dust, during which I felt as if I was an unwilling participant in an Anthony Worrall-Thompson recipe, we passed this sign, standing alone on the empty, baking plain.

This is clearly someone’s idea of a sick joke.

*I can’t afford to hire a car with air-conditioning.

Small Print

2005-12-16T13:12:00.000Z

I walked into the car hire office.

I was slightly apprehensive, as I’d heard all kinds of things about vehicle hire in Namibia. It’s supposed to be hideously expensive, the excesses on the insurance are astronomical, and if you don’t go with a reputable firm, you should probably expect your wheels to fall off, or the engine to catch fire on day three of your trip.

I could easily imagine this happening in Etosha National Park. We’re sitting there at a waterhole, surrounded by a well-camouflaged collection of large and toothy predators, vultures circling hungrily above, when bang! Our engine starts smoking ominously, and three of our four wheels gently plop sideways and lie uselessly in the dust. Would it be better to get out of the car and be savagely mauled, or to stay put and take loads of photos before being consumed in a Toyota-fireball? How to choose?

Fortunately, not fancying this situation, I’d found somewhere that I thought was probably reputable, despite the rates being inexpensive, and including all mileage. Seeing as the pair of us clocked up a whopping 2,853 km in our ten day trip, I’d say this was a bonus.

After a couple of false starts, which saw me enquiring about car hire in a law office, and a beauty salon, I found the tiny office hidden away behind some old wire fence. The albino guy who appeared to be running things smiled at me as I sat down, and folded his fat fingers under his chin. He was very friendly and nice. Unfortunately, he didn’t seem to know a hell of a lot about the conditions of my hire. We had some minor altercations over various bits of insurance, and the fact that my quote seemed to differ from what he had in his system.

Then I asked how much they were in the process of wresting from the feeble grasp of my credit card.

“9,000 Namibian dollars”. (That’s about 900 quid)
“OK. What does that include?”
“The car hire, and the excess.”
“What’s the excess?”
“$1,500”

This is staggeringly low, and for about a millisecond I was tempted to shut up and leave it in case they had made a mistake.

“But the car hire is $2,900, and the excess is $1,500. That comes to $4,400. What about the other $4,600?”
He smiled, triumphantly. “Ah, but if you see, that is why I have only taken $6,000 from your card.” He waved the authorisation slip at me.

This unexpected tangent derailed me, but only momentarily.

“But that’s still too much, if it includes only the excess and the car hire. What about the other $1,600?”

He stared at me, looking slightly hostile. He looked at the computer screen and pressed some buttons, with no apparent result. He picked up my contract, looked at it with pursed lips and put it down again. He pressed some more buttons. Then he seemed to come to a conclusion. He looked at me, and put his hands palm down on the desk.

“Now you are asking me difficult questions.”

After this, I have to confess to becoming somewhat impatient. It is my the bank’s money after all.

All of this made me so much more embarrassed when we locked the keys in the car (still in the ignition) on the Monday evening of our return from our Grand Namibian Adventure. The car was almost unrecognisably filthy, both inside and out*, and the presence of empty drink cans and a pair of (dusty) socks on the back seat topped off the impression that we’d thrown a raucous party in it and failed to clean up the mess.

The same guy turned up with a screwdriver and a coat hanger, and spent an hour and a half of his evening in the car park at Wernhill Shopping centre, sticking them alternately into the (dusty) window casings, while his two year old daughter ran about in the traffic.

The holiday was great though. Our wheels didn’t fall off, and we saw some lions. These lions:

*Namibia is very dusty.

We're all going on a...

2005-12-05T12:13:00.000Z

I'm off on holiday for a few days with a friend from the UK.

So I won't be here. Until a week on Friday.

Ta-ta.

Independent thinking

2005-12-05T08:01:00.000Z

I live next door to an organisation that needs 24 hour security. I’ve become quite chatty with David, the security guard, who seems to spend all day in a fug of boredom, listening to his radio, and occasionally popping his head through the fence, and making me jump. The first time he did it, I nearly wet myself; the sound of a disembodied voice floating eerily through the bougainvillea was unexpected. My reaction resulted in his asking me whether there was a war on in my country.

We had a chat yesterday while I was waiting for some friends to pick me up and take me to the pool for a bit of sunbathing. We chatted about Namibia, and independence, and then he said:

“When did your country get independence?”

I was totally flummoxed. When did we get independence? Have we always had it? Did we have to wrest it from the Romans (vague images of woad-covered warriors and Bodicea and her lethal chariot popped into my head), or did they just get fed up with the rain and the perpetual cold, and leave voluntarily? Did they leave? I started to feel that my grasp of history is shakier than it should be.

I wondered whether Henry VIII’s departure from the Catholic church could be considered any kind of independence – again, I suppose, from Rome. What about William the Conqueror? Did the Normans ever leave? Or the Vikings? The Saxons? The Celts? My head was full of large, red-bearded men galloping around the countryside, waving swords and shouting a lot, or arriving on the shores of Eastern England in strange, large-prowed boats, waving swords and shouting a lot. I was getting confused.

What about Wales and Scotland? – they’re no longer independent. And as for Northern Ireland…

My mind boggled, and I just looked at him and decided on the simple answer. “Errrr… I think we’ve always had it,” I said, unsure of myself.

He clearly did not understand.

“You don’t know when you got independence?”

“Well, no. We’ve always had it.” I didn’t say that we seem to be the ones from whom people in recent times have forcibly reclaimed their right to self-governance.

“You mean there was no war in your country?”

“No. I mean, yes. I mean, there is a war, I mean, there was a war, but…” The arrival of my friends rescued me from unwisely departing on a hopeless tangent and trying to explain the hideous complexities of the Northern Ireland conflict to a man who clearly did not know anything about the country of my birth*. Thankfully.

But the question is still troubling me.

*And why should he? I didn’t know anything about Namibia until I came here. And people I told about coming here almost universally did not have a clue where it was.

I forgot to mention - Namibia itself gained independence from South Africa 15 years ago, except for Walvis Bay, a strategic port in the middle of the west coast, which became part of Namibia in 1994. I found it interesting that I have as little idea what it's like to come from a country so recently free, as he had what it's like to come from a country who's tabloid press still bangs on about the bloody empire every time our global significance is questioned. Another thing taken for granted.

Buglife

2005-12-05T06:30:00.000Z

Now seems to be a time of bugs*.

I don’t know why, but over the last couple of weeks, my small flat has become the Place Where Bugs Come to Die.

I stepped on a largish, yellow-mottled specimen gone belly-up on the bathroom floor when I was getting out of the shower yesterday. On waking this morning I found that an attractive green, pea-sized beetle had peacefully departed to the big bug palace in the sky and left its mortal remains on my pillow, legs immodestly akimbo.

Whenever I sweep the floor (more often than you might think) I notice thin wisps of wings in drifts under the coffee table, or behind the phone. To start with, I thought they were leaves, but then I realised that there was no tree or plant in the vicinity that might carelessly shed leaves of that shape. When I picked one up, before it crumbled between my fingers, I saw the delicate cross-hatching of veins.

I don’t know where these elusive insects hide, because I never see them when they are alive. I don’t know where they leave their bodies either – they are nowhere to be found, and I’ve looked. They leave only their wings in the dust as evidence that they were here at all.

There are, of course, plenty of live specimens. A troupe of tiny ants spends all day patiently fetching and carrying specks of unidentifiable treasure in a long military column that stretches from my sliding doors, skirts my bike, and ends up in the corner by the security bars that protect my small patio from burglars. I woke up this morning to find that they have invaded my kettle.

A tiny, enchanting insect that looks like a baby praying mantis lives in the locking mechanism of my patio doors. A shiny millipede has ventured indoors, but spends most of its time immobile and curled tightly behind the leg of the coffee table.

The other night, a clumsy moth, confused by the sudden extinguishing of the light as I went to sleep, collided repeatedly with my left armpit until I switched the light back on and dispatched it to the bathroom. Clearly, in the absence of anything else, my pale skin renders me identifiable as a source of celestial light.

There are the strange wasp-arsed flies with the extraordinarily long waists, and the wild buzzing, cumbersome fat beetles that seem to career from pillar to post. You can almost see them gasping with relief that they’ve made it without crashing into something, or falling out of the sky.

Lightning-fast carpet spiders cling flatly to the walls, scuttling behind pictures and cupboards at any sign of life. They entwine the striped day-biting mosquitoes in light, invisible webs that leave their slowly twisting corpses hanging from the ceiling tiles.

As I hang out my laundry in the mid-morning sun, a pair of swallowtail butterflies flaps around my head, casting monstrous shadows. I stood outside the other day and watched flashing blue-winged swallows dive and catch foolish flies in the early evening calm.

I quite like sharing my home with these other creatures. They are interesting and unobtrusive (except for the ants in my coffee), and there aren’t very many of them.

I could really do without the mosquitoes though.

*City bugs, obviously. Not country bugs of the ilk that Claypot has to deal with – I’ve never yet had to brave a wall of termites to get to the loo. We live a tame life here in the bustling metropolis.

Innocent

2005-12-02T14:04:00.000Z

‘Tis a Christmas miracle. I have my CRB clearance. I won’t go into all the nonsense I had to go through, desperately phoning random Lewisham estate agents, my old boss, the CRB and VSO, sending snarly emails about the exercise in stupidity that is the Data Protection Act, and generally feeling stressed and teary, before everything finally resolved itself, because its too ridiculous to even talk about in more detail than that.

As long as it doesn’t go astray (touch wood touch wood) between Cambridge and the VSO offices in London, and as long as they send it by courier to VSO in Namibia, and don’t lose it, torch it, lock it away for a thousand years, or tear it up and use it as the labels for the office secret santa presents, things will be fine, and I will be allowed to stay here.

Which would be nice.

It's Chriiiiiiiiistmas....soon

2005-12-02T12:55:00.000Z

It’s December, in case you hadn’t noticed. Normally, when I am at home, this means that I am in a state of advanced Christmas-fatigue, which has been steadily worsening since the end of September. The sight of Christmas crackers on shelves in the height of an Indian summer has the same effect every year – nausea, followed by throbbing temples, and an urge to run screaming from the shop before they start playing Slade. I just thank God that he hasn’t seen fit to inflict Noddy Holder on an unsuspecting Namibian populace yet. As far as I can work out, Bing Crosby’s just about made it, so I reckon we’ve got another 20 good years.

About ten days ago the Namibian actually ran an article about the fact that Windhoek shopping malls are now displaying Christmas decorations, to remind people in the run up – a whole five weeks in advance! Maybe it’s got something to do with the fact that it gets dark at the same time every night here, and so the town council can’t use darkening evenings as an excuse to combat a raging S.A.D. epidemic by putting up Christmas lights as soon as daylight saving ends.

Of course, waiting until it’s nearly Christmas before allowing money grabbing corporate opportunists to go insane and drive the collective population into a frenzy of acquisition means that everyone here goes Christmas shopping at the same time. And because everyone, but everyone, in Windhoek goes on holiday to Swakopmund for the month of December, they are all doing their Christmas shopping now. Shops are suddenly places of which to be wary.

Despite this sudden buzz of seasonal activity, I’m feeling very unChristmassy. I suppose the fact that it’s boiling hot here doesn’t help – tinsel just seems so very wrong in this climate. And at home, they’re all enduring blizzards and snow, and it’s set to be a white Christmas. It’s refreshing, in a way, to be away from it all, but also odd. Still, at least I know that on the day itself, I’ll be on the beach, chucking a steak on the braai and toasting everyone I know with a cold, delicious Windhoek lager.

Can’t complain.

Politically Absurd

2005-11-30T07:20:00.000Z

Yesterday I had an ~~uncharacteristic~~ craving for chocolate. I had to have a chocolate milkshake. And so I went to my favourite café in Maerua Mall and had one, thick with ice cream and sweet chocolate sauce.

I noticed, while I was ordering, that I could have a mixture of flavours, and if this was what I wanted, then I should “ask one of our waitrons”.

Waitron? Who came up with that one?

I looked around in alarm, in case my waitron decided to fuse in the highly charged, stormy atmosphere, and explode, flinging cogs and ballbearings at lethal speeds through the crowded restaurant.

I’m living in a Philip K Dick novel and I never even knew it.

Donner and Blitzen

2005-11-29T14:19:00.000Z

It’s stormy. For weeks it’s been getting hotter, and yet there’s been no sight of relief, of a break, of rain. Everything has become parched.

For the last two afternoons, spectacular wild-horse storms have come racing towards us over the mountains. We can watch them coming for hours, the distant thunderheads thrashing with lightning, growling at the edge of hearing.

I spent the weekend on a friend’s ‘farm’ (some troublesome goats - RIP, two enormously fat pigs - destined for the slaughterhouse as of yesterday, three short and stocky ponies, still alive, some elusive ducks, two dogs and a cat). We spent a quiet Sunday sitting in a breeze that was soft with coming rain, sanding down a couple of pine tables. The sweet, intoxicating fragrance of pine mixed with linseed oil and the ozone tang of the distant storm.

I was about to have my armies invade Afghanistan in daring attempt to take over Asia* when we remembered that the tables were in trouble. We went outside to bring them in and watched the rain advancing. I stood, exhilarated, the lightning whip-cracking into the earth, until fat drops began to gust into me, harried by the rising wind. As we ran inside, hailstones the size of peas sent puffs of dust up from the still-dry ground.

When the deluge was finally over I stood open-mouthed as a rainbow grew out of the golden-lit hills behind the farm, and arched over the pinkening sky. I wish I could describe it. The sunset on the retreating storm clouds is beyond words – so I took a photo. Actually, I took about ten, but here are the best ones.

Then, yesterday, the weather surpassed itself, a cavalry in pursuit of Sunday’s lone horseman. It crowded in from all sides, wrist-thick splits of lightning jagging across the bruising sky, plunging into the ground in all directions with a noise like the earth cracking apart. And then it started to hail.

The two of us sat in a bar in Maerua Mall, listening to the sky crash down around our ears, barely able to hear ourselves think. Hailstones piled up in foamy drifts, swirling around the gutters, like stray suds gathering around plugholes. The floor was awash. They were sweeping rivers out of the pizza restaurant where we had dinner. Everywhere you looked, people were running, trying to dodge the wall of rain. It was phenomenal.

I’m a bit worried about cycling in it though, which is fine, because currently the valve from my front tyre is attached, as if fused by some terrible external pressure, to the valve of my bike pump. They’re like copulating dogs, except you can’t separate them by throwing water on them.
*Risk. What a great game. If you’re winning. It reminded me of the monopoly games I used to play with my family when I was younger. I can remember that same uncontrollable urge to heft the board and all the pieces in the air, and then run about laughing maniacally in a rain of paper money and Community Chest cards as if it were yesterday.

Infestation

2005-11-23T00:35:00.000Z

Today, I have mostly been sitting at my desk, trying to kill ants with the end of a broken pencil.

Black hole

2005-11-22T15:55:00.000Z

The fecking shysters at the Criminal Records Bureau/Metropolitan Police have now had my application for five months. It’s supposed to take four weeks. I don’t know what they’re doing with it – folding it up and sticking it under the legs of wonky desks? Using it to make whizzy paper aeroplanes in those moments of boredom where there just aren’t enough applications to process? Using the back as a handy note pad to work out their tax returns?

The CRB being, ironically, in Liverpool, it’s entirely feasible that it has been stolen in a break in, and is being torn up and used as handy wraps by burberry-fixated scouse coke dealers.

Or perhaps they have accidentally shredded it, and have spent the last five months trying to stick it back together with sellotape.

My visa runs out in two weeks. There is no sign of an extension on the horizon. I’m concerned that unless I get my CRB check very, very soon, I am in danger of being ejected from the country, never to return. I’m not ready for that. I like it here. And also it’s a bit chilly at home right now.

I know that the Met are busy protecting London from Evil Terrorists, but surely there are enough personnel left to process my application a little more quickly? They can’t all be running amok on the underground, shooting random civilians.

I am getting a bit cross.

H.O.T.

2005-11-21T12:32:00.000Z

I’m trying desperately to think up inspiring words to use to describe to you how hot it is today.

Even my elbows are sweating. The backs of my knees are producing enough moisture to rival the average daily rainfall in Wales. I keep imagining how utterly wonderful it would be to discover a forgotten pocket of wintry air in the back of the stationery cupboard. I don’t know what made me think I might find it in the stationery cupboard, but I’ve stuck my head in there just in case the idea was a result of divine inspiration. It wasn’t.

All I can hear outside is the whirr and grind of cicadas in the bushes. Cicadas make the heat seem more intense. They sound like radio interference, when there’s nothing but sultry, oppressive silence for them to interfere with.

Solitude and peace remove any distractions from the heat, but the presence of people just makes it more stifling.

I’m finding it next to impossible to imagine what the weather’s like at home. I went to watch the rugby on Saturday, and the pictures from Twickenham seemed like they were from another planet. It was only 3pm, and the sky was already darkening. The naked trees and pebbledash semis looked chilled and subdued. The players all breathed wreaths of vapour at each other – presumably some kind of gamesmanship.

I simply can’t imagine ever feeling cold again. Worse, coolness threatens permanently to elude me.

I’m going to go home, open the fridge door and sit in front of it.

You shall have a fishy...

2005-11-18T12:40:00.000Z

“Marius, can you get me some food while you’re out please? A pie? And some water? Thanks”

Two hours pass.

Marius walks in through the door.

“Your water is in the car”, he says, running past me into his office.

“What about my pie?”, I ask hopefully.

“No pies left. But I got some raw fish.”

“?”

Convinced that he is joking I go out to the car. On the seat, next to my bottle of water, is a plastic tub of roll-mops.

Line dancing

2005-11-17T13:11:00.000Z

I spotted the taxi driver as he came around the corner. He was still out of sight of the gaggle of school kids that last week were responsible for my 40 minute wait in the boiling heat with a supermarket carrier bag full of dairy produce. They were, by all accounts, also responsible for beating up one of my colleagues and stealing her cellphone and all of her money, but that’s not why I was lurking out of sight.

It’s impossible to get a taxi from Maerua Mall at lunchtime at the moment. Exam time means that the kids are always there. No matter how many of them leap into taxis, there seems to be a never ending supply of blue clad, notebook wielding teenagers. It’s as if, when one disappears, an identical one is created out of thin air in a bizarre realisation of a Doctor Who episode.

Being British, I am a firm believer in the value of queuing. It’s just right. I have an in-built hatred of queue jumpers that leads me to do that arms-folded-foot-tapping-tongue-tutting-stare-balefully-at-the culprit-in-the-hope-that-they-will-feel-absolutely-ashamed-of-themselves-and-piss-off-to-the-back-of-the-queue thing that you always see British people doing in check-in counters at airports.

So last week, my queuing gene compelled me to wait until the kids had all gone before trying to get a taxi. After 20 minutes I realised that this was futile, so I started extending my arm at passing cabs to indicate that I was looking for one, in case just standing there in the scrum looking desperate and hot wasn’t obvious enough.

It made no difference. I actually did manage to get into a cab at one point, about 26 minutes in, but had to get out again when four kids hijacked me by jumping into the back, and instructing him to go to Katutura.

So, today, unwilling to go through this rigmarole, I put into practice my new belief that queuing is for losers and sissies, and came out of the back exit to nab the cabs before they made it round to the front. Clever, no? It worked. Hallelujah.

I was less impressed when my taxi driver deliberately cut up an ambulance, despite the presence of flashy lights and sirens, and then drove slowly in front of it for a few agonising minutes while the driver gesticulated wildly at him to get out of the way. My driver trundled along in second gear, looking in his rear view mirror, chewing a bit of twig like a man deprived of gorm, while some poor bastard no doubt bled to death in one of Namibia’s regular horrific road accidents. And it was my fault.

Queues are there for a reason. I understand that now.

Equal Opportunities

2005-11-17T06:20:00.000Z

It’s time to go through the CVs for our receptionist post. There are millions of them. They slide in drifts off the desks, and pile up on the floor. We need snow shoes to navigate the office. An entire rainforest has expired in order to supply the paper we are now sifting through.

I’ve been involved in selecting candidates for interview before, and so was quite prepared for a mammoth endeavour, reading each CV in detail and marking them according to the job description. Ability and experience is everything – age and sex irrelevant.

Not here. Oh no.

On the chuck pile go:

*Anyone over 25 (We’re a young organisation)
*Women with children (Kids are always sick or have problems at school)
*Married women (ditto)
*People who live more than 50k outside Windhoek (Will have to stay with relatives, which won’t work out, so they will go home)

I paled. It just seems so wrong. But then, when we have over 500 CVs, and our shortlist must not exceed five candidates, it does seem like a good way, if unfair, to get rid of the ones who won’t get anywhere anyway. I must confess to having come round to this way of thinking after dutifully reading over 30 CVs.

So, in the spirit of efficiency, I have added the following to the chuck pile criteria:

*People who staple their CVs in a way that causes me to injure myself when I open the envelope
*People who write their motivation letters on scrappy bits of stained paper with badly torn edges
*People who can’t spell ‘receptionist’, ‘typist’ or the name of the organisation
*People who fill in application forms for other positions and use that as their CV
*People who enclose every single certification they have ever earned, even if it’s in swimming.

It’s making a huge difference.

Taxi with a twist

2005-11-16T09:54:00.000Z

I had a mercifully brief conversation about my sexual availability with my taxi driver this morning that took me right back to the time I spent in Egypt, and the constant question “Do you have a boyfriend?”

When I worked as a tour leader, I led a number of different trips. For some reason, if you were ending one trip at a particular hotel in Luxor, the likelihood was that you should relocate to another hotel in town to begin the next trip. Cue extended lie in, followed by hasty packing of huge rucksack, dragging belongings downstairs trailing scarves and toiletries, flinging it all in a taxi and haring off to check in across town.

I used to have the following conversation about 20 times a day:

“Where you from?”
“England”
“You have a boyfriend?”
“Yep, most certainly do, thanks for asking.”
“Egyptian boyfriend, or English boyfriend?”
“English.” (No choice but to answer this – if I said Egyptian, I’d be expected to provide name, addresse, shoes size and dental records)
“Aha. Then you need an Egyptian boyfriend too.”

Normally at this point, I’d laugh, and he’d laugh, and we’d all have a jolly old giggle, I’d pay him, and he’d bugger off to annoy his next client.

One guy took it a bit further.

“You like sex?”
“Excuse me?”
“You like sex?”
“I wouldn’t know”, I said. “I’m a virgin. And anyway, in my culture it’s considered extremely rude to ask a woman that question.”
“But all western women, they like sex. All the time.”
I told him that if he didn’t shut up, I’d get out of the cab and find someone else to take me to my hotel. He kept quiet for a blissful five seconds.

“I have a bed.”
“Gosh. How nice for you.” I sensed this was going to be an interesting discussion.
“Is in my flat. My bed. Is in my flat. Is nearby.”
“Lovely.” Getmeoutofhere.
“You come with me now, we have sex, I bring you to your hotel. Fifteen minutes.”

How could a girl refuse such an appealing offer? A hurried humping session with a toothless, unwashed cabbie on a scummy mattress in the sweltering heat of Luxor was just what the doctor ordered. Naturally I requested that he hightail it to his flat immediately to commence festivities. In fact, why not just pull into the nearest alleyway and go at it on the sticky plastic seats in the back?

At least that’s what I meant to say. What actually came out of my mouth was “No. You’re extremely rude and I don’t want to talk to you any more. Shut up, and take me to the Pharoah hotel, which is what I’m paying you for or I’ll report you to the police.”

A golden opportunity missed.

As I dragged my stuff out of the boot, the hotel porters rushed to give me a hand. I turned to pay the driver, and found him proffering a grubby piece of paper.

“My phone number. You change your mind, you want sex, I come, I pick you up. Fifteen minutes.”

Mute with amazement, I took it. I probably still have it somewhere. You never know when I might need it.

Waxing Lyrical

2005-11-15T10:35:00.000Z

This is what I did with my weekend.

<

I wish I could show a picture of the sunset I saw on Saturday night. We were ensconced in a lovely, shady camp spot, boerwors and lamb chops at the ready under the tree, braai ready to fire up. We put everything we needed into my backpack, and then we climbed for a while until the Landrover became a speck far below, and the whole world was laid out before me. The sky is so vast here, the horizons so far away. Mountains gave way to mountains that gave way to a limitless expanse of blue. The half moon burned brighter as the earth turned, and slowly hid the sun from view. A kestrel flung itself out into the thermals and drifted, keening, until we could no longer see it.

In the shade of a small cave, we sat and poured the wine, and then we sat and watched as the sky became a canvas that you wouldn’t think could be real. Soft greens and impossible blues merged into pink and purple, like a fantastically complex cocktail before it’s shaken. The plains stretched away, seemingly empty, but alive with countless invisible lives. In my mind I populated the landscape with ostriches running and zebras grazing.

When it was over we climbed down, before the light went, and finished the wine by the fire.

No photo could do it justice, and my writing certainly can’t. I just hope I never forget how it looked.

Meet and Greet

2005-11-15T09:47:00.000Z

I met my new landlord for the first time last night. He is a lovely old gent, big shock of white hair, friendliness seeping from his pores. He moseyed round last night, brandishing a bottle of some kind of cream liqueur made from the sap of a palm tree that veldt dwellers have been using as an aid to bare-knuckle lion fighting since the mammoths roamed the earth. Exciting stuff.

“My name is Janni”, he said, informatively. “You may call me Uncle Janni.” He grinned at me, and pointed to his hair. “Because of the white hair”. Glad we cleared that up, then. I was starting to worry.

He handed me a piece of yellow paper and asked me to write down the names of his new tenants. There’s only one of me, so I simply wrote down the two names, and hoped that putting ‘not a tenant’ in brackets next to one of them would go some way to explaining that, contrary to all appearances, the unidentified young man who was lurking round the back taking my laundry off the line is not actually a resident.

He moseyed off again. I went inside, and we toasted ‘Uncle’ Janni.

Come to think of it, I do feel up to a little lion wrestling today.

Indecision

2005-11-15T09:44:00.000Z

Oh, I don’t know what to do with this. I felt empty of inspiration, and sick to death of this blog. Now I’ve done some other exciting stuff that’s made me want to write things, and here we are again, four days later, and I’m tapping away.

I’m still planning on making a fresh start, but for now, if anyone’s still reading, I just shove stuff up here.

Thank you to everyone for all the kind comments. You’re all fab.

So long, farewell, aufwiedersehen, etc....

2005-11-10T09:26:00.000Z

I’m writing about cheese. This absolutely cannot be interesting to anyone. I feel that after a year, and a move abroad, this blog as it is has reached its natural end. Something else is now required, so I’m going to move along, and wave goodbye to everyone. I’ll probably start blogging again at some point, but it won’t be here, and it won’t be for a while.

So thanks for reading, everyone. It’s been a blast.

Cheesy wotsits

2005-11-08T14:11:00.000Z

Does anyone remember the whole Parmalat fraud scandal a couple of years ago? I was quite confused when the big news hit the papers. I’d never heard of Parmalat, but by all accounts they were close to ruling the world from behind the façade of their dairy product business, until the management in Italy let slip that they’d ‘lost’ 3.5 billion euros.

Anyway, I forgot about it pretty quickly, because frankly, Parmalat didn’t feature large in my life. Until I got here.

I love cheese. I’ll eat any kind of cheese, at any time of day, preferably until it’s all run out, and I’m supine on the sofa, cracker crumbs resting in drifts on my swollen belly. A nice melty brie – yes please. Crumbly, creamy wensleydale – bring it on. Give me a good chunk of Cornish Yarg and I’ll give you anything you want.

Namibia doesn’t get cheese, and for a nation so rich in goats, this is a travesty. All you can buy in the supermarket are blocks of pale, flaccid battery-cheese. Those cheeses are miserable, I tell you. They look like they’re raised in perpetual darkness. I’m sure they torture them before they’re taken off to the cling-film machine for wrapping. They arrive at the supermarket in foot long bricks that could give you a nasty injury if one fell on you while you were innocently buying milk. They all taste like shit, and they are all made by Parmalat.

The global giants have won. Obviously their billion euro fuck up didn’t stop them from trying to foist inferior products on an unsuspecting nation.

I could cry.

Lurgy. Again.

2005-11-07T07:19:00.000Z

It started with a vague burning sensation on my right shoulder. After about five minutes I mentioned it. Within ten, I felt as if I’d been flayed alive. From the back of my neck, down to the backs of my thighs was an expanse of fiery red, the heat warming through the cold towel that had been thoughtfully placed across my back. When it was peeled off, it felt as though my skin went with it. I imagined that I lay there, muscles and sinew exposed to the elements.

I had a very fitful night’s sleep, not helped by the extraordinary amount of tequila rushing through my bloodstream. I dreamed that I had mushrooms growing out of my skin – flesh coloured lumps and bumps so huge that I couldn’t get my clothes on. I woke up this morning feeling shockingly bad, unsure as to whether it was a hangover, or because in patches I still felt as if I’d been branded.

I think I might be allergic to crayfish. It’s a fucking tragedy.

Desirable: good telephone manner

2005-11-03T11:45:00.000Z

When someone rings you, and says “Could you hold the line please?” does it instantly make you want to hang up? It does me, and it's happened to me twice this morning, during a string of calls about a job advert that we have placed in the paper.

A woman rang through to our offices just now, and after hearing my cheerful greeting, said “Where am I now?” I don’t know, love. We don’t have a satellite tracking device in the office – we’re a charity. If you’re confused, ask a policeman.

It strikes me that half the people applying for this job are unable to read, and therefore should not be applying to be a receptionist/typist. For a start, the name of our organisation is on the very top of the advert, and so if you ask me how to spell it, I am not going to be impressed with your powers of deduction, or ability to use your initiative.

Secondly, the deadline for applications is clearly stated on the bottom, and so asking me whether the post has been filled, or when the deadline is, similarly is going to make me question your capacity to function effectively.

Even worse are the people who ring up and say “Where are your offices?”, and then, when you have explained, ask you to hold on for a minute while they get a pen, and then make you repeat the whole thing. Forward thinking – is it a thing of the past?

There is obviously a niche market for training people how to apply for jobs in a way that doesn't get their CV brutally consigned to the huge burning pile in the car park. I should suggest it to someone.

Lurgy

2005-11-02T10:27:00.000Z

I look as if I should be quarantined in a high-security medical facility. My face is covered in unsightly red blobs. They itch like buggery, and they are expanding by the minute.

I’m not sure why this is.

The Life of Pie-ley

2005-10-28T00:21:00.000+01:00

You might not expect it, but Namibia is a country that has picked up on the appeal of pies, and has turned it into an art form. Even the cheapo, Petrol-station-takeaway-warmed-up-in-a-cabinet pie that I would normally avoid at all costs at home is streets ahead of your bog standard UK-chip-shop effort in terms of quality and taste. I’m becoming addicted.

My favourite pie so far is the pepper steak flavour, which actually has proper bits of steak in it, in a yummy, neither bland nor greasy pepper sauce. And it is all encased in NICE pastry, that isn’t soggy, or stodgy, or too crumbly, or too dry, or all the other unfortunate things that happen to pastry when people don’t care about how it turns out, and that take all the enjoyment out of pie eating. Occasionally the filling does spill out of the back, but there’s usually just enough pastry left with which to scoop it all up. Perfection.

I’m planning on making a list of all the places where I know you can buy a pie, so that I can strategically plan any lunch hours that I find myself in town. I’m fed up with chip butties and kabanosit sausages.

If you’re lucky, sometimes you’ll pass by one of the mobile pie-men in the street, although they don't seem to frequent this neighbourhood. They’re a bit like the gimmicky old-fashioned ice cream sellers that they have in Hyde Park, who trundle along with those hand carts with bells on, except that these guys don’t wear straw boaters. Or sell ice cream. Only pies.

Man. Now I’m hungry.

Off Day

2005-10-27T08:05:00.000+01:00

One of the things I like most about my office is that when I arrive at 8am, or thereabouts, the two people I share my space with are sitting and reading the paper. I usually join them.

I get my daily Namibian from the guy who stands at the traffic lights at the bottom of Sam Nujoma Drive. I’m sure he thinks I’m completely crazy. I bowl up on my ancient purple bicycle, give him a couple of dollars, we exchange smiles and hellos, and then I’m off, trundling up the hill, paper neatly tucked into the rack on the back.

I usually find that a nice interlude sat perusing the news is healthy, and it stops me dripping sweat all over my grant application forms.

Today though, there are four pages of grim stories. There’s a picture of the feet and gun of the Deputy Minister’s driver, who publicly shot himself in the head yesterday. There’s a nice wee story about a skeleton that’s been found tied to a tree on a farm in Khomas; it’s believed he/she was tortured. The other news is that murder victim Juanita, who thankfully has been reunited with her severed head after a couple of weeks of strenuous searching, was killed by a blow to the back of the skull. Her family had to identify her head, which was ‘partially decomposed’. Can you imagine?

So, I’m feeling rather miserable about the state of the world today. Perhaps I’ll go back to remaining ignorant of goings on.

Connectivity

2005-10-26T13:04:00.000+01:00

I am connected again. Finally, I can find out what’s going on in the world. I can give myself a bit of time to read about the fact that US casualties in the Iraq war have topped 2000 (still no headlines about Iraqi casualties), and that Israel have been bombing the Gaza strip again.

Even though the news is dispiriting, it feels soooo good to be in touch. I’ve felt as if there’s been a giant hole in my brain, and I’ve had to fill it with rubbish (crap chick lit – don’t bother to read Playing Away. Possibly the worst book I have ever read, but when you’re desperate….). As a consequence, I’ve been feeling remarkably stupid and ill-informed, although the Namibian has some really interesting articles in it on a Friday (one about researchers baiting giant squid with mashed up squid gonads which was particularly good), and thoughtfully gives you a run down of the week’s suicides and murders. Most people who commit suicide here seem to hang themselves, usually from trees.

My favourite article, though, is the news from Tessa Jowell that London Council Tax payers, who already pay out ridiculously hefty sums for the privilege of living in our illustrious capital, are going to have to fork out for the Olympics IF it runs over budget. If? Ha ha ha ha. I had a hunch that projects such as these habitually come in at staggeringly more than the original project cost – the Millenium Dome being a particular favourite - and so I looked some of them up.

Wonder what the chances are for the Olympics?

Sick as a Dog

2005-10-26T08:53:00.000+01:00

While the rest of the world is coping with a mass outbreak of bird flu, in Namibia we remain blissfully carefree. A large article in the Namibian newspaper caught my eye last week, and I breathed a sigh of relief at the news that the government is not worried that the disease will ravage the country’s poultry population and then move on to decimate the humans. I’m convinced that this is partly because in Namibia chicken is regarded as a vegetable, and so would be likely to remain unaffected.

Instead, we have to deal with an outbreak of rabies in the capital. An unprecedented number of foaming and staggering dogs have been brought in to various veterinary establishments over the last few days. Not surprisingly, the city went into panic mode. A widespread rabies epidemic would be completely disastrous - there are more dogs in Windhoek than there are people, (and I’m sure that they are all trained to bark wildly at people on bicycles). That’s without considering the baboons, and all the wee animals like cats, mongooses (mongeese?) and squirrels.

In any case, a mass free vaccination programme has been launched, and unidentified stray dogs are being picked up and destroyed. I think I’ll be ok. I’m sure that my landlords have vaccinated both of their dogs, and as yet I haven’t been attacked by a squirrel. I did have a moment of worry when on my return home one of the dogs insisted on trying to lick me to death, rather than acting like the vicious attack jack russell that it clearly is meant to be (apparently a symptom of rabies in wild animals is over-friendliness). Then I considered that it is probably not what you’d call a wild animal, and in any case it is completely normal for me to spend my evenings trying to stop the damn thing licking between my toes. I think that dogs must like the taste of stale sweat.

The same seems to be true of the inevitable dog at my new home. I’m moving in just over a week, and yesterday was introduced to Boris. I don’t like dogs much, and Boris is urrrgly. I think he’s some kind of bulldog. He’s stunted and wrinkled. He waddles, probably due to his unfeasibly large testicles (a feature I noticed in surprise after my predecessor in the apartment said “This is Boris. She’s very friendly.”)

He is indeed very friendly, and he looks like he would thoroughly enjoy getting smelly dog hair all over my sofa. Also, I don’t want balls that size anywhere near anything I have to sit on on a regular basis because, frankly, they look as if they need to explode, so he’s going to have to learn to stay outside.

Anyway, hopefully I will escape a horrible, salivating death, bird flu won’t affect the chicken population, Boris’s bollocks will manage to contain themselves, and I’ll be able to ~~burble on about nothing in particular for the foreseeable future~~ keep you posted on his training.

I just hope I’m better at controlling him than I am unruly teenagers.

That was the week that was

2005-10-24T13:56:00.000+01:00

And what a week it's been. Jeez, I've never been so glad to get shot of a group of people in my entire life. Coping with 20 bored, sulky teenagers is clearly not my calling in life. The little bastards.

"Miss, you must take me one photo."
"Miss, you must give me one dollar. I want to smoke."
"Miss, give me two dollars. I want to buy beer."
"Miss, let's talk business. Give me your cellphone. I want to call my sister/brother/mother/great aunt/third cousin twice removed/dog."
"Miss, this accomodation/food/place where we must perform is not good."
"Miss, blah blah, whinge, demand, whinge, pout."

It's been a torrid week. We moved from the youth hostel in Swakop, where I was sharing a room with 10 girls, to an empty house in Karibib, where I shared floor space on a mouldy mattress with 26 assorted youths of both sexes, who all seemed intent on making as much noise as possible, having as much sex as possible, and making themselves as obnoxious as possible. My most common phrase this week has been "Look, I SAID BE QUIET. How many times do I have to say it?"

Privacy was a mere wisp of a dream. More men have seen me in my underwear this last week than in the last ten years. At one point I had to share the single outdoor shower cubicle with two of the girls. The whole thing was open on to next door's yard, so god knows who's seen me naked. I'm past caring.

Then there was the business with the elastoplasts. I bought a box for emergencies, and within two days, all of the kids were wandering around with flesh-coloured plasters stuck all over them.

"Miss, you must give me one plaster".
"Why?"
"Because I have an insect bite"
"Hmm. Looks like a hickey to me."
"What miss?"
"Nothing. Have a plaster."

Friday was the real killer. I'd been looking on it as an experience to be grateful for, but never repeated, until Friday. We were all relaxing at lunch time, trying to get some rest, when all hell broke loose. I didn't understand a single word of what was happening, but there were tears, and there was screaming. Two of the girls tried to hurl themselves bodily at one of the others, who had taken refuge behind a door, and was being protected by three of my colleagues. I stood, open mouthed, entirely unheeded, shouting "Hey!! Hey, what is going on? Hello?"

It transpires that one of the girls refused to give a bit of orange to one of the others, and so, as you do, the orangeless one insulted the other one's mother. I don't know what was said, but apparently in Damaran it was a mortal insult. They seriously tried to beat her to a pulp. These girls are hardcore. I had to threaten to call the police. Last I heard, they had to actually take the poor girl to her front door, because it all started again when they got off the bus in Kamanjab.

She completely refused to perform in the afternoon, which was a pain in the arse, because she had by far the most important part to play in the proceedings; she just sat there in tears. I spent the afternoon glaring at all and sundry, in a thoroughly black mood, ready to start beating people to a pulp myself if crossed.

Then I awoke at 2am to the sound of adolescent copulation a mere foot from my head. I can testify that the condom message appears to have got through, because I heard them use it.

The rest of my week involved sitting around in the baking heat, sweeping up broken glass from outside shebeens (a Sysephean task, that one - I had no idea there was so much broken glass in the world), and refusing to give people money.

My experience in Namibia so far is that people don't ask for money, so it was quite a surprise to find so many people confidently approaching me this week, hand outstretched, saying "Give me one dollar", as if the outcome was a foregone conclusion. I was so deeply pissed off with being mistaken for a mobile cash machine by the end of last week, that I'm sure my heart turned to stone. My guilt at saying no to people entirely disappeared.

I'm so glad it's over. And I'm seriously reconsidering my desire to give birth.

Anyway, my favourite thing about the week was the troupe of baboons I saw on the way home on Saturday, perching on the electicity wires like large, ungainly birds.

They made me smile.

Leader of the pack

2005-10-17T16:00:00.000+01:00

Now I remember why I gave up being a tour leader. It never stops, and is punctuated by long periods of intense boredom.

I got into bed last night, and was asked that loaded question:

"Miss, do you have children?"
No.
"What are you waiting for?"
Well, the right man would be useful...
"You don't have one?"
Er...
"Have one of mine - I have two!" Gales of laughter.

I went outside to make a phone call. Half way through, I noticed that boys were pouring from their room, clad only in boxer shorts, and standing around in the car park. On closer inspection, one of them appeared to be lying by the dustbin clutching his stomach. I went over to inspect, and regretted it. Projectile vomiting at bedtime is not my idea of a fun night. He was carted off to the clinic*, while the poor kid on clean-up duty retched his way back to bed. I wiped the sick spatters off my feet and went to bed.

This morning, at 5am, all of the girls woke up, as if controlled by an orbiting spaceship bent on global domination, and began showering and singing. My first sentence of the day, which is usually a cheery good morning, became "Sweet Jesus. It's too. Fucking. Early. Breakfast is not for another TWO AND A HALF HOURS. Go back to sleep."

They're sweet kids, who have great voices, and no prospects. Most of them will be lucky if they ever get a job. Statistically, four of the twenty will die of AIDS. I'm hoping they'll have got the message that they themselves are trying to convey with this tour, and that this won't be their fate but I don't know. Sometimes I find myself wondering whether they really know or want to know anything about HIV and AIDS, or whether they joined the group because that's the only thing in Kamanjab that there is to do, apart from drink and have sex. At least they will have been exposed to the information though, which is more than can be said for alot of people.

None of them has ever seen the sea before. I pointed out some seagulls to one boy, who said in a voice I reserve only for giraffes, "I've heard of seagulls. But only until now I have not seen one with my own eyes".

The same could be said of jellyfish. I ran up and down the jetty, waving my arms and shouting "Don't touch the jellyfish! Don't touch the jellyfish!", like a madwoman.

"Miss, what is it?" [prod]
"It's a jellyfish, I said don't touch it."
"Why not?" [prod]
"It will sting you. Stop touching it."
"What...?" [prod]
"It's poisonous. What part of don't touch the jellyfish don't you understand?"
Repeat several times, and you have a rough approximation of my lunch hour.

And from tomorrow, for four days, I'm solely responsible for all of them. God help us all.

*My boss told me this morning that they didn't have to spend long at the hospital. There was only one other patient in at the time - a girl who'd been raped. She was four years old. Sometimes I wonder about the human race.

Midnight Feast

2005-10-16T13:21:00.000+01:00

I've been eaten alive. For the last three nights I've opened my eyes at about 3am, fully awake, staring into the dark. I know what's woken me, and the fact that it's now silent makes me nervous. I wait for the telltale whine to begin again, for the mosquito to dive bomb my ear, blowing a high pitched vampire raspberry at my futile attempts to kill it. The little fucker has it in for me.

If anyone could see into the room at this point, they'd witness a bizarre and silent pantomime, which always culminates with me repeatedly slapping myself over the side of the head. It doesn't work. I woke up yesterday with 38 moquito bites on my ankles and legs. I looked like I had an extremely isolated case of chicken pox. Now, 24 hours later, they've turned into giant festering blobs. I'm starting to worry less about chicken pox, and more about anthrax.

Worse, I showed my polka-dot legs to Kamati in complaint. "Why don't you use the bug spray in your room?", has asked, reasonably enough. I told him that the only spray in my room is lavender fragranced air freshener. It matches the walls.

"Well, why didn't you put the fan on?" he asked, clearly exasperated at my stupidity. What fan? He had two fans in his room, which unlike mine was decorated with manly animal prints and ochre paint. All there was in my room was a wall display with pink plastic flowers, wall to wall lilac, a faulty table lamp and an indestructible blood-sucking agent of the devil. Sexism in action.

No matter. We are now in Swakopmund, and I know that by Tuesday I will be begging for lilac paint and mosquitos. For the next few nights I'm sharing a basic 15 bed dormintory with 11 teenaged girls from Kamanjab, on the youth drama tour that I am accompanying. I'm too old for this shit.

Also, after my Oshakati trip, on which I took a towel, a sleeping bag, a pillow and a jumper, and needed none of them, I decided not to bring any of them on this trip. There are no towels at the hostel. No sleeping bags either. No pillows. Oh, and it's cold. Ford Prefect did know a thing or two after all.

Swakop is an odd place, incidentally. It's a town of wide, palm lined avenues. Stuccoed buildings, complete with cuppolas and verandas overlook the blue Atlantic. A cool breeze blows sand gently down the roads. It could be a Riviera town in the 1950s. A handpainted sign on a pharmacy door says "Out of hours service: tel 5523". A clothes shop window display helpfully informs that 'Lay-by's are allowed', in case you want to come back for your purchase. And it's utterly, utterly empty of people. I ran in here in relief, certain that I was about to be consumed by strange time-eating monsters, like the people that accidentally end up in an empty yesterday in a Stephen King story - The Langoliers.

Still, I have to say that I'm unutterably, completely happy. Long may it continue.

The straight and narrow road...

2005-10-13T12:15:00.000+01:00

Well, it was straight alright, but not that narrow. And we drove along it for a good five hours. Because it's inadvisable to drive after dark in this country - wildlife tends to leap in front of your headlights, causing all kinds of mayhem - we broke the journey to Opuwo at a little one goat town called Kamanjab.

Kamanjab seems nice, but all there is is the Impala Meat Market and Bakery, the New Sheild Supermarket and Bottle Store (god forbid any town should be without one) and the guest house, which is run by the most enormous Afrikaaner bloke I've ever seen, who seems to wander around alot in a bath towel looking moist and freshly talcumed. It certainly explains where all the hot water went. He's generally accompanied around the place by his terrier, which is approximately the size of one of his feet. Must be some kind of symbiotic relationship.

I've now crossed the Red Line* three times, although this time was quite different to the last. Along the main road it's all armed policemen and boot checks, but here, all we had to do was hand over some incentives and they waved us right through. Normally, in tales of Africa that I have heard, at this kind of road block you're advised to take things like cigarettes with which to sweeten the deal. Not us. We handed over a box of Ministry condoms. The condom idea itself seemed to be in vogue, but they didn't seem very satisfied with the anonymous looking government ones. They wanted Cool Ryder brand: the power of advertising.

We departed from Kamanjab in plenty of time, and set off on the long drive to Opuwo, along the dusty gravel road. I've discovered that if you put your thumb on the windscreen when cars are going past, it stops stones shattering it, and thereby cutting your journey rather short. A fortunate discovery as a toyota belting past at about a million miles an hour threw up a rock the side of my fist which bashed against the windscreen in front of my face. I can' t imagine getting stuck on the road to Opuwo. There is no traffic. You'd be there for days. I was starting to get worried about the hierarchy in the car in case we became stranded and had to start eating each other, but fortunately we made it. Better still, I saw a couple of giraffe. I nearly wet myself with excitement. I've been sooo looking forward to seeing giraffe.

The last bit of road is the most dusty I think I've ever been on. At one point we emerged from a mini sandstorm to see a woman, wrapped up to the eyeballs against the heat and dust, miserably waving a little green flag. We rocked into Opuwo, a pale cloud heralding our arrival, and when I'd finally managed to locate the office through the murk, I had to swerve slightly to avoid a large pig that seemed to be having a bath in the dust.

Opuwo is a crazy place. The main topics of conversation seem to be the heat ("Oof, it's hot today, neh?), the dust ("Oof, is dusty today, neh?)" and the water, or lack thereof ("When we will get water? I don't know. The government say this Friday, but they have said this Friday for all year." )

Bare breasted Himba women, with their goatskin headdresses, red plaits, and ochre skin shining in the heat, lug tiny lolling ochre-skinned children on their backs. Herero ladies sashay about in their huge Victorian dresses, elaborately folded headdresses so distinctive through the clouds of dust. I so wish I could draw like Vitrolica, because I know she could do a mean drawing of a Herero couple wandering along - she in her huge dress and he in his fedora, waistcoat and walking stick. I tried last night, but it just ended up looking ridiculous.

We had a little bit of excitement yesterday also, as we sat and watched it try to rain, when a toyota landcruiser started chasing an emormous cow down the middle of the main street. That was fun.

I'm pretty knackered today, as last night it was so hot I couldn't sleep. At about 2am, I became so desperate that I filled my washing bowl with some precious water, and half lay on my bed, legs protruding from my mosquito net, but feet submurged in the cool, miraculous liquid, dreaming fitfully about oversised mosquitos and the longed for rain.

It's back to Kamanjab for the next few days this afternoon. Kamati and I will sit again in the front of the Condom Estate, sharing my ipod headphones and periodically seeing who can be quickest to stick a thumb on the windscreen.

And tonight, I will try very, very hard to wash the dust from my hair.

*The line that separates the northern fifth of the country from the rest in the south, and which was used to demarcate who was allowed to live where under the Apartheid system. Guess who got the sweet deal? It's now an animal disease control checkpoint.

I left my heart in Oshakati

2005-10-10T12:54:00.000+01:00

Well, it’s been an eventful week. The discovery that our hotel room had a TV was wonderful – I have felt very out of touch with the world. Unfortunately, I seem to have picked a week when the four horsemen of the apocalypse are trampling all over Mexico, Guatemala, Bali, Pakistan and Afghanistan. It was quite spooky really, as the only other channel seemed to be the God channel: Evangelical southern American preachers belting out the word of God all bloody day (send in your gift of any amount, and you’ll receive this free CD and prayer book, and on top of that we’ll pop a cheapo plastic gem on the altar on the 27 October, so you can try and get your unsaved loved ones’ souls placed in the crown of our saviour before they’re consigned to the fires of hell, amen), and healing people through the TV. If I weren’t so secure in my atheism, I may have been tempted to think that the week’s global events were indeed a series of doom-laden portents.

VSO really turned us into tourists for the week, which was great. My wildlife count for my stay so far now includes a kudu, springbok, eland, ostriches and a solitary warthog. I also think I should count the dead donkey we saw being skinned and divvied up by the side of the road on the way out of Oshakati on Saturday, and the wide-open, emptied head of a cow that rested on the floor in a market that we wandered through. It sort of reminded me of the time I came home from school to find my parents sorting out bits of freshly slaughtered pig into freezer bags on the kitchen floor. There was half a pigs head, eye side up, in our freezer for years. I’d be eyeballed every time I went to fish out a loaf of bread. I’m including them anyway, as these are sights the like of which I’ve not seen for a while, as for some reason, the relationship between live animal, and end product foodstuff seems to be taboo at home. Which reminds me – does anyone know the best way to kill a chicken? I’d go for strangulation, but others in the discussion were opting for decapitation. I’m not sure it’s that easy to decapitate a chicken on your own, honestly, but any thoughts welcome.

Anyway, apparently people really only eat donkey if it’s roadkill, because animals are so extremely valuable here. Literally, your animals are your bank account if you’re a subsistence farmer. Meat’s such a precious source of protein that it makes sense to take advantage of a food parcel like that when it lands in your lap. Mind you, judging from the way donkeys just stand there by the side of the road looking forlorn and forsaken, I’d say plenty of them deliberately keel over into the path of oncoming traffic out of sheer boredom.

I should probably count the mopane worm I ate too. I hadn’t realised I was such a pathetic wuss – I thought I’d find the whole idea of eating fried caterpillars a bit grim, but relatively unproblematic, but it took me at least half an hour to get over my utter disgust at the very idea of putting it’s black, leathery body anywhere near my face. I sat and stared at it lying there next to my mahangu* and trying to look as if I thought it was going to be delicious. I think I’ve been back in the UK too long. I should make it a policy to eat one whenever they’re available, to remind myself that I don’t have to worry about not having anything to eat.

I also went to my first cuca shop. These places, also known as shebeens, are illegal bars. There are thousands of them. Sometimes whole villages seem to consist of nothing more than a couple of houses, a shop, a coffin shop and ten different bars. They are the most common form of small business enterprise in Namibia, but none of them are registered. They all look like they could fit about six people in them at a squash, are called outlandish things like “Kitchen Love Bar”, and ‘Three Sisters in Beer Garden”, and are abundantly stocked with Tafel lager. Every few miles, there’s a massive Tafel warehouse, and delivery vans are out all the time, taking the nectar to the needy. I found out on Saturday night that not only are they plentifully stocked with beer, you could probably buy a lifetime’s supply of pilchards at any one shebeen. Tinned pilchards seem to be very popular up north.

It was great. We danced to South African pop songs on the sandy verge, to the amusement of the local clientele, who joined in, and quaffed plentiful supplies of Tafel. We played pool with the locals, and I was subjected to a strange and generally untillegible, but friendly tirade by a very, very drunk old woman, who kept telling me that her kids had no food, which seemed grossly unfair on the kids, seeing as she was stuffing an entire bag of tomatoes into her face, while swigging from a giant beer bottle. I also discovered that it seems perfectly acceptable to come up to a total stranger and demand that they give you half of their beer, although I didn’t try it myself. And I learned that when the guy from VSO gets worried about the looks the girls are getting from a particular man behind the bar, you leave, very, very quickly. I’m fairly convinced that’s going to be my only cuca shop experience, seeing as in Windhoek they only really exist in the townships in Katutura and Khomasdal, and I’m certain I would not be welcome.

Coming back into Windhoek was wonderful – I felt like I was coming home. Since I’ve been away all the jacaranda trees have blossomed wildly, and when you come down in to the valley, the city seems to be covered in a beautiful rash of purple blotches.

I love it here.

Right. I’m off to Opuwo, home of the Himba people, tomorrow to look at some of the work my organisation is doing, so I’ll be incommunicado for another short spell. This blog is promising to get very dull. Please do come back! I should be back in about a week, with more tales from this fabulous place.

*staple pap made out of maize meal. People keep going on about how horrible it is, but I thought it was very palatable, (if a little sandy), especially with a bit of sauce and some dried spinach (also sandy). Wash it down with some homemade beer, and you’re laughing.

Wildlife spotting II

2005-09-30T12:10:00.000+01:00

I’ll stop with the cycling stories soon, I promise. Now that I have some way of getting out and about, I’ll find something more interesting to write about. Like the huge baboon I saw this morning on my cycle into work. It just lolloped off into the scrub as if it was perfectly normal for a baboon to be scratching itself by the side of the road. Which, I suppose, it is here. I keep snorting with laughter just thinking about what would happen if a baboon appeared to cyclists on their daily commute in London.

Anyway, I shall be seeing much more wildlife over the next week, I should think, as I’m off up to Oshakati, in the hot and dusty north, for another week’s training with VSO. Whenever I say I’m going up there, people puff their cheeks out and look troubled, or just laugh as if to say “Rather you than me, mate”. Apparently last week it hit 40 degrees up there. I was talking to someone last night who bought some sweets from a trader from Oshakati a few days ago. He said they were so full of sand, they made him ill. I seriously can't wait - I'm itching to get out and see some more of Namibia.

So, I have much to look forward to, apart from access to the interweb, so these pages shall be silent again, at least for a while.

I'm free, to do what I want, any old time...

2005-09-29T15:27:00.000+01:00

You’ll have to excuse my dishevelled appearance… The damp and matted hair; the red and sweat drenched face; the haggard countenance; the uncontrollable wheezing…

I have ice hot needles inside my lungs. I had no idea that cycling in this climate would have such an immediate and catastrophic effect on my pulmonary system – I feel like I got up this morning and smoked forty fags. According to the man in the bike shop around the corner from my house, where I went to buy my helmet, the air is so dry, and so full of dust, that this kind of reaction is normal. He didn’t even crack a cynical smile as I staggered to the counter, gasping and flopping in the manner of a beached pilchard.

It’s the hills, man. The hills are going to be the death of me. The journey itself is quite short – the whole thing, including a 15 minute detour to the bike shop, took 45 minutes, and I walked some of it. What I’m worried about is that one day I will simply slow to a crawl on my way up an incline, and keel over by the side of the road to wait with gratitude for death to take me. Ach (as they say in these parts), at least I will be fit.

My bike, by the way, is a gem. It practically rides itself. It’s by far the best bike I’ve ever owned. And I do love cycling. My favourite part of the journey today was coming over the brow of a hill, and seeing Windhoek laid out in the valley below me. The town is completely surrounded by mountains that are covered in brush and empty of habitation. I don’t know how anyone ever chose it as a site to build a town, but it’s certainly spectacular.

The traffic is not a problem either. For most of my journey it’s very light – traffic in Windhoek isn’t exactly choking up the thoroughfares at the best of times. There are only 250,000 people here, most of them don’t have cars, and the roads are smooth and wide.

Anyway, it doesn’t matter that I feel absolutely battered - I’m free!!!! Wheeeee!!!

I love to shop, a ha ha ha haaaa

2005-09-27T12:23:00.000+01:00

Bike buying in Namibia seems to be quite a difficult task.

My flatmate took me to the Trade Centre on Friday in order to purchase my independence, and I came away with much less hair than I went in with, and a black cloud of doom floating over my head.

The Trade Centre is a bizarre place – it’s a vast warehouse, with bulk goods lining the aisles, most of which rise 20 feet up to the ceiling. They even have a giant polystyrene cow above the dairy section, which, if I was still a student, I would be determined to have in pride of place in my front room. If you ever want a lifetime’s supply of OMO washing powder, or a bag of biltong the size of a large pillow, the Trade Centre’s your best bet. They sell everything from cheese to pool tables, and it’s all very cheap.

The man at the bike department had originally told me that if I returned at the end of the week, I would be able to purchase one of the new deliveries of bike that have frames built for those of us who wear skirts. I arrived on Friday to be greeting with a blank countenance, and a distinct lack of available bikes. I kind of expected this however, and as he was quite friendly and sort of helpful, I decided to compromise, and buy a man’s bike.

The first one I tried had a severely wonky wheel. When I pointed it out, the salesman merely nodded, as if this was to be expected. I pointed to an almost identical bike, which happened to be $100 more expensive, and asked why there was a difference in the price.

Him: This one has the wrong price. It is $500, not $400.
Me: Why is it more expensive?
Him: I think it is better.
Me: Yes, but why? What has it got that this one hasn’t (apart from a straight front wheel?)
Him: Err, it is better, the quality, it is better.
Me: But they have the same number and quality of gears, they’re both steel frames, both exactly the same specifications, why is it more expensive?
Him: It is better. The quality is better. [pauses, and then points to the cheaper model] I think this one also is better. They are both better.

I have to confess to feeling sorry for the poor bastard. He obviously knew next to nothing about bikes, and wasn’t used to being asked questions, so I plumped for the more expensive one, and asked him to get me a new one. On closer inspection I noted that the tyres were completely flat. I decided to try out the pump to make sure it fit. It didn’t. He didn’t believe me, and spent 10 minutes unsuccessfully trying to force air into an entirely unresponsive inner tube.

Me: Well, could you have the tyres pumped up for me, at least?
Him: Ah, no. We cannot use the company’s pump. You must go to a service station.
Me: How am I supposed to get there on a bike with flat tyres?
Him: I don’t know.

And so I left, and went for a beer instead.

Today was a bit more successful. My new friend Marius and I were passed from pillar to post, eventually ending up in a warehouse where they fix bikes sent over from Europe, and sell them. My bike is great for three reasons. It’s purple, it’s cheap, and no-one will ever, ever steal it. It looks like a piece of crap. It’s a real, beat up, sit up and beg, pootle-round-Amsterdam-in-the-1960s bike. It’s even got an old dynamo. I love it. For some reason I can’t fathom, I got attached to it as soon as I saw it.

Now all I have to do is buy a helmet…

Wildlife spotting

2005-09-23T15:31:00.000+01:00

I’m a bit disappointed that I’ve been in Namibia for two weeks, and until now the most exciting thing I’ve seen so far is a baby cockroach in the bathroom.

Apparently, according to our Program Manager, who has just come back from Opuwo, if I go there, I could be bathing with more exciting things. He just handed me a report, which I thought he wanted me to read, and I’d almost put my thumb on it before I realised that under the front cover was the corpse of a three inch long scorpion.

Hot in the City

2005-09-23T15:24:00.000+01:00

Well, I made it. I haven’t had a chance to get to the internet before now, for a variety of reasons, not least of which is that people seem to be congenitally incapable of keeping appointments in this place. I’m not surprised; just boilingly frustrated. People have been promising to come at 8, at 12, at 2, before lunch, after lunch, before the end of the day, when hell freezes over and the camels come skating home…. On Wednesday someone did show up, but all he said was “Is it you I’m connecting to the network? Ah, right, good. That’s all I need to know. See you tomorrow.” He hasn’t been seen since. I’m using someone else’s PC.

The other reason I haven’t been able to get to the internet is because I can’t really get out of my house unless accompanied by someone with a car, because it’s so far to anywhere useful. Neither can I leave my office without being accompanied, or driven. Two of my colleagues were robbed at knife point in the last month walking across the scrubby stretch of bushland to and from Maerua Mall - the nearest shopping centre. As a consequence, one of them is utterly paranoid about going anywhere, and puts the wind up me every time I even talk about going out, although we did venture to another small supermarket today. I’m even having to rely on the generosity of a colleague to get to and from work, because taxis are impossible to come by and very expensive, at both ends.

If I was any kind of naïf, I’d think that the traditional Windhoekian greeting conversation goes something like this:

THEM: “Welcome to Namibia! Are you planning on buying a car while you’re here?”
ME: “No, I can’t afford one. I’d have to sell a limb.”
THEM: “[sucks teeth] Oooh, difficult. Difficult.”

Windhoek is a strange place, and, initially, a nerve-wracking one. VSO managed to find me a shared apartment in a part of town called Ludwigsdorf. Anyone in the know will tell you that Ludwigsdorf is the Mayfair of Windhoek. Rent is extortionate, swimming pools compulsory, and each and every gigantic house is surrounded by electric wire, razor fencing, multiple alarm systems, electric gates and armed response signs. Our house even has two dogs, but one of them is too daft to bark, and the other one is only concerned with licking my feet. It must just love the taste of stale sweat. Sometimes we pick up other dogs. Every time I open the gate, some local mutt or other bounds joyously through, and starts yapping hectically with the other two. Yesterday it was a dachshund puppy with unfeasibly long ears.

My flatmate and I are ensconced in a little granny flat that I believe housed the domestic staff during the days of Apartheid. It’s very comfortable, but miles and miles away from anywhere, and as yet lacks any real cooking facilities. We’re using the two ring camping gas thing that VSO use for camping trips, and which welds all food irretrievably to the bottom of any pan you happen to be using. VSO provided us with some furniture, but in order to sleep, I have to sacrifice my supply of books – my bed only has three legs, so they’re they only things keeping me upright.

I’m a bit cheesed off with VSO, who said originally that I would be able to rely on public transport for all my needs. Taxis form the bulk of public transport in this city, and they act a little like buses, having designated routes and pickup points. If you travel along a designated route, it will cost you $6 (about 50p), but if you go outside that, they charge you at least double. I have to walk two miles from home to even find a taxi, because no one in Ludwigsdorf ever needs one, and if I walk to Maerua Mall from work, which is the only place I’d find one, I’m likely to be set upon by armed youths.

My flatmate is taking me to the Trade Centre tonight to buy a bike. Hopefully that will give me some modicum of independence. I’m trying not to think about the cycle to work every day, which is extremely pretty, and winds through groves of pleasant houses surrounded by the newly purpling jacaranda trees. Swallowtail butterflies drift flappily over head, and songbirds warble amongst the cacti. It does, however, involve riding up and down a series of large hills in blistering heat. I will be very fit at the very least. Actually, I’ll probably be moving closer to the centre of town at the end of October, which will make life a great deal easier.

It’s hot here. The sun begins to bake the dry earth as soon as it peeps over the mountains that ring the city. By midday it’s sweltering, the heat beating up from the tarmac, and crisping the yellow grass into sharp and crackling spikes. By four, all you want to do is hide in the shade, and rest your cheek against cool tiles. By six, it’s starting to cool, and I’ve been spending my early evenings sitting drinking ice cold gin and tonic and watching the lavender sunsets. The evening star is so bright here that it comes out far, far earlier than any other. It looks somewhat ethereal, burning up there while the sky is still darkening from lilac to deep blue.

It’s hot, and it’s going to get hotter. Apparently it’s only spring now – by December it gets so stifling that the entire city decamps to the seaside for a month. It’s dry too. So dry that you don’t even know you’re sweating. It evaporates immediately, offering not a speck of cool relief. My skin has reacted bizarrely, and I can tell already that my main expense here will be moisturiser – for my lips, my face, my body and my hair. I feel desiccated.

The altitude is another factor here – we’re at 4,500 feet, or thereabouts, which is the height of Ben Nevis. In my first week I woke up every morning with blood crusted to my teeth and tongue, and I immediately, being an inveterate hypochondriac, assumed that I had some terrible terminal disease. It is just nose-bleeds though, and they’ve more or less stopped now. Also on the plus side, the dryness does make for agreeably satisfying crusty bogeys.

Windhoek is a very pleasant place, despite the distances and transport problems. The streets are wide and almost empty of traffic, and there are numerous palm trees and jacarandas. Bougainvillea grows over everything, draping glorious oranges, reds, hot pinks and daffodil yellows across the whitewashed buildings. Everyone I’ve met has been wonderfully friendly and welcoming.

There’s plenty to do here too. Since I arrived I’ve been to the theatre, the cinema, a braai, spent a lazy Sunday at Katatura swimming pool, and last night’s crowning glory, the Putt Putt at Maerua Mall. Not the most inspired crazy golf pitch I’ve ever played on, but still, a pleasant diversion for a balmy Thursday evening. The Namibians seem to love it. The course was covered in couples and groups, shrieking and running about like maniacs. My burning ambition now is to reach the par, which is 36. Last night I scored 73, which I think is perfectly reasonable, even though we only allowed ourselves six shots per hole.

Another advantage is that although work starts early, it also finishes early(ish). I’m usually home by 5.15. Last night I managed to make a curry, hand-wash two weeks worth of laundry and eat a leisurely meal before heading off to the crazy golf. I know, I know. I’m going to be living such an exciting life! I’ll also have arms like Fatima Whitbread after two years of bucket laundry. Au revoir, bingo wings.

Life here, for me, will be very easy, and I’m sure, pleasant. Incredibly though, in a city so rich, there are an enormous amount people who have nothing to eat on a daily basis. Unemployment is a huge problem, as is HIV and AIDS. It makes me feel extraordinarily guilty, not that I can help that I am so lucky, or would if I could. At least I’m in a position where I can use my skills to make a difference, even if it is tiny.

Anyway, I’m sure that’s quite enough for now. Ciao.

Pre-emptive Strike

2005-09-09T08:45:00.000+01:00

Ok, I know that technically I'm not actually there yet, but I did receive confirmation from VSO that my tickets are in the post, and that I have a visa, so will be allowed into the country without the little piece of paper confirming that I am not a criminal, and have never in any way been involved with nefarious activities. That they know of.

I'm fully expecting to be on that plane tomorrow night, and I'm hoping that this will mean that we arrive safely in Windhoek at around lunchtime on Sunday. With these thoughts in mind, I have changed the blog to reflect my new status as 'International Woman of Mystery'. Although I haven't changed it much, that you'd notice.

This action will probably scupper everything. As my Namibia-bound friend Sue said the other day, we will probably all have to go to Torremolinos because we can't come back from the airport after so many months of saying goodbye to people, and then running into them in Sainsburys' and hearing the familiar cry of "Haven't you gone yet?".

Honestly, I feel as if I've been saying goodbye to people since January. Enough already, can we go now?

I haven't yet said goodbye to the Beastette, who has been sadly neglected of late. It will be left, leaning forlornly against the balcony wall, until my flatmate can take her home to my mum. I'm not sure which is better - at least here it's got a nice view of a churchyard. My mum's garage has the largest collection of deadly spiders outside Australia. We don't go in there any more. The cobwebs are too difficult to tackle without the help of a blowtorch.

I haven't packed yet either, although my clothes are now piled up in little stacks (skirts, shirts, trousers, etc. - I am nothing if not methodical). The BF is coming over this afternoon to help me pack, which means that he will sit around holidng up vital items, saying "Do you really need this?", and generally hindering my progress.

This will be my last post for a while, as I'm not sure whether I'll be able to get to a computer next week. Please come back next weekend for an update (I expect the weather in Spain will be lovely.)

Bee. Bzzz.

2005-09-05T15:52:00.000+01:00

Oh my god. The last few days have been crazy. I had a party. Lots of people came. They all got drunk and watched me hurtle around in an insane parody of a social butterfly, except that I slopped more wine than an elegant society belle would do. And I may have had dirtier feet.

Then on Sunday we went punting.
This is why I love Cambridge. It's stunningly beautiful, compact and easy to manage, has great pubs, and the most civilised form of Sunday afternoon entertainment on the planet.

Anyway, now I'm getting a bit panicky. I've got loads of work still left to do this week, and not much time to do it. The BF keeps telling me not to panic, and I keep trying to persuade him that the prospect of disappearing off to Namibia with a negative bank balance is not my idea of a good time. However, this might actually end up being the case, the way things are going at the moment.

Also, I have not yet had my Criminal Records Bureau check through, without which it is somewhat doubtful that I will be allowed past customs at Windhoek airport. Neither have I had any flight tickets, and my placement adviser seems utterly clueless as to what to do, and just keeps telling me not to panic.

So, five days to go. No packing. No visa. No tickets. No money. No sanity.

Oh well. Back to work.

Cannibal

2005-08-31T23:34:00.000+01:00

I just had the following conversation with my mother:

Mum: Do you know how much I pay for a sandwich in that shop?
Me: No… how much?
Mum: 85p!
Me(trying unsuccessfully to be funny):I bet that’s because they have a plentiful supply of human flesh.
Mum: Oh, I don’t think so. They just have good value produce.

Should I be worried that she didn’t even blink?

It's a chill wind

2005-08-28T19:24:00.000+01:00

I’m so very, very cold. My nose has gone numb. My fingers are corpselike and bloodless. My feet, although they are ensconced in thick woolly socks, will not transmit feeling through the frost-bitten nerve endings, and I keep falling over. My arctic fleece is not sufficient to keep in the warmth. My ears may drop off. If it didn’t mean venturing outside to get kindling and wood, I’d try to light a fire, but I’m too cold to do anything.

May I remind you that it is AUGUST. It’s the bloody Bank Holiday – that time of year when whole families decamp to the seaside. The country is awash with caravan owners, weaving dangerously to-and-fro on the motorway, and clogging up the country’s arteries with unstable vehicular appendages.

Children are supposed to be frolicking in the surf this weekend, gazed upon by a furious sun, the broiling, burnished skies above them free of clouds. I’m not a great fan of swimming on our coastline as it is. It always seems to be typical of the British determination to ignore the real weather and try to fool the gods by venturing out in ludicrously inadequate clothing, and then to pretend to their small children that splashing about in the artic run-off is fun. This weekend though, I expect everyone will be wrapped up warm and cosy somewhere other than the rainswept beaches*.

And it’s even colder in here. I don’t know what it is about my Mum’s house, but it acts like a selfish child at playgroup who hogs all the toys. It seems to suck warmth into its walls, and keep it there so that no-one else can use it.

My mother steadfastly refuses to notice, and wanders about the house Eskimo-like. I’ve often thought that she’s in denial about things like normal temperatures, but this takes the biscuit. And now that the lovely warm aga in the kitchen has been taken out, it’s like the frozen Siberian tundra in there as well, except less windy.

Roll on Windhoek. The weather forecast today is sunny. In fact, check it out. I’ve never seen my BBC weather home page look more appealing.

*I have actually just checked the weather forecast for the rest of the country, and it appears I’m in the only pocket of damp chill east of Ireland. Even in Great Yarmouth, temple of seaside tack, the temperature is a respectable 26 degrees. Bah. I’m off to light a fire.

The thinking girl's crumpet...

2005-08-28T09:59:00.000+01:00

I love crumpets. There’s something so enormously comforting about the way that the butter dribbles through the holes and pools on the plate. I’ve just eaten two of them, and I can feel a warm smear of butter and honey on my lower lip. I almost wish I had a beard, so that I could save it for later*.

I also love yoga, which is why I can’t understand why I seem to be finding excuses not to do it. (“I’ll do some yoga later, right now I REALLY need to write a post, as I have something very important to say about, er… crumpets, for which the world cannot possibly wait.”)

Yesterday was a frantic exercise in packing – it took me just over two hours to throw all my worldly belongings into boxes, while the BF, who came in from a party at 3.30am, lay about in bed, groaning, and getting eyeliner all over my pillows. I coerced my lovely flatmate into driving me down to Wales with everything all stuffed willy-nilly in the back of his boot. We spent the journey down the motorway with my stitched portrait of Chairman Mao (a gift, not a political statement) proudly staring out of the back of the car at all and sundry.

I’m so tense that I look as if someone has surgically attached my collarbones to the underside of my chin. Yoga would sort me out, but I’m procrastinating again. Just the thought of doing breathing exercises makes me hunch over like a little old lady, and run for the ~~booze cabinet~~ teapot. I think some perverse part of me must actually like feeling stressed. Twisted.

Anyway, as it’s Wales, it is naturally raining, so it won’t be so bad sitting inside, finishing off the 23 page Community Fund report that I started working on three months ago, and which I have promised to finish for my previous employers. I should have just sprinted from the building, scattering papers behind me, shouting “Ahahahahahahahahaaaaaaaaa! It’s all yours, suckers!” but it seems that I have a conscience.

I’m a fool.

*For some reason that thought has simultaneously revolted me, and made me giggle wildly. I'm definitely losing the plot.

It's been a hard day's night

2005-08-24T08:13:00.000+01:00

This course is heavy duty. They dress it up with lots of interesting practical work - one group exercise on facilitation techniques yesterday left me weeping and incapable with mirth - but it's hard work, and goes on from 9am to 8pm every day. Except Thursday when we're all going bowling.

Harborne Hall also turns me into a walking dustbin. I can't stop eating. I had a full cooked breakfast followed by yoghurt and prunes yesterday, and by 11am my stomach was doing a little food dance. Eating three enormous meals a day may feed my brain cells but it doesn't do alot for my waistline, and neither does the beer. My stomach is expanding gratuitously.

I also feel incredibly close to the ten people in my group. I had a moment of sadness last night when I realised that after Friday I'm not going to see most of them again - we're all going to be flung out across the globe like water from a spun unbrella.

Anyway, I'm having a ball. But I'm too knackered, and too busy to post much, so I'll be back next week.

Right. I wonder what's for breakfast...

Update

2005-08-22T18:40:00.000+01:00

I Just wanted to apologise for the boringness of the previous post. I was obviously still infused with the spirit of Milton Keynes Coachway. I imagine the atmosphere lingers a little like nictotine on net curtains. Insidious.

The waiting room doubled as a filthy greasy spoon, and was filled with heavy smokers and screaming children waiting to get on a bus to Blackpool. The edges of the room were fetchingly decorated with fat, lank women in grey tracksuits. All the mugs were free on a job lot from a local haulage company. I almost expected to turn round and see the woman from the beginning of Withnail and I - you know, the one who dribbles egg down her front while tucking into a fry sandwich.

Don't make me go back.