Hayestack

The town of Tsumeb was the location for the second part of VSO training. It is an old copper mining town about 2 hours drive from Rundu and is a tiny version of Windhoek. This old German town has green lawns, smart shops, pavements and even traffic lights. One of the more charming characteristics of this place is that there is very little traffic. I stood in the middle of Main Street at 5.30pm on a Saturday afternoon and there was not a vehicle to be seen in either direction, not even parked. In any other town I would have been flattened in seconds. Most of the time it is a ghost town but comes alive at midday when the shop workers take their lunch break and loll against the walls or sit on the pavements. Several cars can then be seen congesting the road. I once saw a queue of three cars at the lights in the centre of town. No doubt the town authorities will bring in a congestion charge if it gets worse. At least, I think the lights are traffic lights, though they seem to serve no real purpose as the traffic is so light. The alternative explanation is that they are the Christmas lights left over from last year. They are bunched in groups facing all directions and are seen at best advantage from the exact centre of the junction. I stood there one evening (there was no danger as there was no traffic) and watched spell-bound as they twinkled at me like lights on a Christmas tree. It was all I could do to stop myself from bursting into a verse of “Hark the Herald Angels sing”.

We were reunited with the other new volunteers full of new experiences and enthusiasm (Oh, to be young again). They are scattered around north Namibia, mostly in places with names beginning with “O” that are totally forgettable. They all loved their jobs, the people and the country.

Our VSO leaders had the best rooms in the best hotel in town. The rooms led off a small courtyard shaded by luxuriant flowering shrubs and overhanging trees in which the swimming pool was situated. A stone sculpture, reminiscent of an Italian villa stood next to the pool. We, the volunteers were destined for self-catering bungalows but the first of our group to arrive were horrified, designated them a “gulag” and refused to stay there. Consequently, we were booked into the second best hotel in town. This was still pretty good luxury and every time I had a hot shower, a huge breakfast, lunch and dinner, I mentally thanked all those VSO donors who had given their precious money to make this luxury possible for us. Admittedly, this was an exceptional circumstance, but in the interests of solidarity and not wishing to squander meagre resources on such opulent living, maybe VSO staff should have been prepared to join us in cheaper accommodation. This, however, would have gone against Namibian/African culture where the few at the top get to spend foreign donations on conferences in the best venues, with expensive accommodation and meals while the great majority at the bottom eke out a meagre existence on “pap” (maize meal) in a mud hut. I have heard it argued, by people who should know better, that this sort of thing is understandable as Namibia is a young country (18 years) and still developing. We should be more understanding when they squander on luxury money that could have helped alleviate poverty. But hey, that’s teenagers all over, isn’t it?

We walked around the Cultural Village Museum exhibiting a variety of huts made by different tribes. Those of us with open sandals became suddenly aware that they were being eaten by ants. Some managed to find a rock to stand on out of their way, but most of us jumped up and down, stamping our feet to shake off the painful creatures. Having seen a few African dances, I am convinced that this was how they started. When you stamp your feet you automatically spread out your arms to keep balance. All you then need is a young man with loads of energy to expend, thrashing the living daylights out of a drum, and you have an authentic African dance. Try it, unless you have a weak heart and/or don’t want to look like an idiot.

It’s good to stamp in Africa. One of the volunteers trod on a scorpion without realising it during the lecture on land reform. The rest of us had fallen asleep. It was the only exciting thing that happened that afternoon.

Etosha is one of the best game reserves in Africa. It is amazing that anything can live on this vast arid plain and the fact that elephants, giraffes, zebra and many kinds of antelope amongst other large animals thrive in such abundance is a miracle.

We took the “gravel” road to Etosha. This kind of road is one that the builders forgot to finish, or they ran out of tar. Consequently, your car, leaving a billowing trail of dust in its wake, will rattle and shake until the joints knock and bits start falling off. An ordinary saloon is no good for this kind of road. You need a 4×4, and a tough one at that. Then you can fly at speed across the ridges and bumps, sneering at their attempts to slow you down and wreck your car. The roads inside the game reserve were even worse. Here there were ridges the size of the Grand Canyon and pot-holes the depth of Cheddar Gorge. We zigzagged our way along the Etosha roads like drunken maniacs with the ominous clanking of universal joints in our ears. But the view outside the car was astounding. In the distance we saw a group of giraffes towering above the trees. We had to take photos. We had not seen a group of giraffes before. By the end of the day, after photographing dozens of giraffes within kicking distance we realised how lame the first photos were.

We seemed to see springbok, impala and zebra at every turn. They watched us from the side of the road as though thoroughly bored by the whole business. At least they didn’t demand money to have their photograph taken. Humans are more canny. The other day I took a photo of the River Kavango as it meandered through a particularly interesting piece of countryside. In the distance I heard a woman calling to me. It turned out she wanted money as I’d apparently taken her photo. She was a blob in the far distance and not a very interesting one at that. Though I admired her enterprising spirit and sheer gall, she was disappointed that day.

We hadn’t seen an elephant all day and when we’d just about given up, a proud male came marching majestically out of the bush. For some reason all the other animals abandoned the water hole allowing the elephant free reign to wallow in the mud.

We visited several water holes that day and saw many elephants squirting water and chucking dust over themselves. Springbok lined up at the water’s edge sipping nervously, giraffes splayed out their legs doing the splits in an effort to have a drink. Amazingly, they managed to recover their posture with little effort. The birds were too laid back and didn’t notice the black-backed jackal stalking them until it had one in its jaws. It was a light snack and gone in a second. The jackal had a harder job surprising the birds after that. One very common bird was the kori bustard. Karin, our Dutch friend, misheard this, we assume, and every time she spotted this large bird she would shout with glee,

“Look, there’s another bastard over there!”

There were lions and leopards in the park but we didn’t see any that day. As the sun sank, the hyenas began to slink out of the shadows one at a time on their way to the water-hole. Looking sly and savage they gathered together for the night’s hunting.

We looked around. All the other cars had left.

“The clock at the entrance definitely said closing at seven-thirty,” announced Georgina with her usual tone of misplaced confidence.

It was now getting quite dark and we were the only people on the road. We were locked in. I was driving and we picked up speed, considerable speed. We nearly took out an impala but it managed to jump off the road just in time. A large mass came into view by the side of the road. It was black and had a horn at one end.

“Rhinoceros,” I shouted, slamming on the brakes. By the time we had reversed, the rhino had sloped off into the bush leaving us with a view of its disappearing rump, which, strangely, resembled the expression on the face of the woman gate-keeper when we eventually arrived at the exit.

The tense conversation went like this:

“You’re late”

“The clock said 7.30 closing time.”

“The clock’s broken. Closing is seven.” (How did everyone else know?)

She frowned and obviously thought we were idiots or desperate criminals.

“Where’s your tickets?” Yes, we still had tickets.

“You Namibians?” As VSO we paid the local rate. Tourists pay at least double.

We didn’t look like Namibians and were obviously confidence tricksters.

With a humiliating amount of profuse apologies, ( I was prepared to go so far as throwing myself on the ground and kissing her feet) she capitulated and instructed her henchman to unlock the gate and let us out. As we drove back to the campsite we felt relieved that we had experienced a close encounter with the wildest creature in the game park and survived.

Popa Falls is a rapid on the Kavango River just outside the Mahango Game Park. On our way there we stopped at a supermarket to buy cold drinks. Small and dingy, it was anything but “super”. But it did have cold drinks. Men and boys propped themselves against the walls as though the walls were in imminent danger of falling down. Swigging periodically from bottles of Windhoek lager and tins of cola they stared at us as if trying to work out from which planet we had just arrived.

A bedraggled youth of about 15 years sidled up to me. His body odour had arrived a good minute before him. I suspected that his torn, stained and holey brown tee-shirt had started out in life as a white one. In one hand he held a long stick to one end of which he had attached bottle tops in the form of two wheels which he pushed around in front of him.

“Gimme a dollar,” he said without moving his lips. The words were nearly totally incoherent but this was the beggar child’s usual demand. His eyes were glazed and watery, his face puffy. His repeated demand was turning into a mantra. Evidently, his tactic was to wear his victim down with a combined assault on nose and ear so that the victim would give a coin just to get rid of him. And before you think me the most callous person who ever breathed, you must understand that these “professional” beggars can earn anything up to 80 Namibian dollars a day and have to give most of it to the older boys in the gang. Our hard-working cleaner earns 50 Namibian dollars and has to support a family.

John knew the best way to Popa Falls. “There’s a track at the end of this garden.” We looked but saw no garden. “There!” he said, pointing to a field half the size of England. “Oh, that garden,” Linda said.

It turned out that we had managed to evade the enterprising woman who had appointed herself entrance fee collector to the Falls.

“That woman robs people” said John. She had been a former class mate of his and he knew her tricks. We were pleased not to have been robbed that day.

At Popa Falls, John and his family stripped to their pants and braved the foaming water. It looked cool and refreshing, but, for me, totally resistible.

Of course, they had no towel, so, with jeans over wet pants they paraded back to the car like cowboys who had been in the saddle for 2 months without a break. Laugh? I could have wet myself.

So you’re on your way to Tesco, you turn the corner and there’s an elephant in the road, staring straight at you, wondering if it wants to charge you. You would have a fright, right? Well, we were sort of expecting it as we were in elephant country, Mahango Game Park, to be precise. Not that I want to play down the danger of our predicament and the courage and fortitude we displayed in facing up to it. The elephant, after all was wild (well, a little cross, at least). He was a handsome young male (and he knew it) who had spent the morning polishing his tusks, grooming his hair and was now nonchalantly walking down the strip looking for some smart chick to pick up. He chewed on the branch of a tree trying to look cool.

“Hey you,” he said (he was a talking elephant). “Wotcha doin’ here? This is my spot for pickin’ up chicks.”

“OK, man, we’re not going to cramp your style.”

We edged the car forward.

He stared at us for a bit wondering if he should give us a bit of action. No doubt he had a flick knife hidden about his person.

“Don’t go any nearer,” warned John, our Namibian gardener and whose ancestors had been mighty warriors.

“These animals are dangerous. They could flick this car over easily.”

Maybe his forebears had had trouble with elephants flicking over cars?

“Don’t be such a wimp, John, “ said Linda, (or words to that effect). “We’re miles away.” Nevertheless, all our senses were on full alert looking for the slightest sign that this cool dude was beginning to heat up. He flapped his magnificent ears and lifted one leg. Was this the first sign of a charge or was he waving goodbye? Apparently it was the latter because he turned and sloped off into the undergrowth without even a high five.

Linda, Georgina and I had driven the 2 hours to Mahango with John, his brother, Andreas and 3 children from their extended family. Although they were native Namibians they had little experience of the local wildlife. As we drove through the park there seemed to be elephant droppings everywhere. This was evidently an elephant toilet.

On first arriving at the park, the childrens’ entertainer in Linda had come out.

“What animal will we see first? A prize for whoever gets it right.”

“A lion,” said one. “Elephant,” said another. “Giraffe, buffalo.”

I plumped for “kangaroo” as the others seemed a little obvious. They, unanimously, and I might add, rather unkindly, pooh poohed my suggestion. Given the number of droppings in the park, there seemed to be a lot of pooh poohing going on that day. I scoured the scrub for a kangaroo in vain. Were those kangaroo droppings? If you threw them would they bounce?

Springbok and impala were everywhere all wanting their photo taken. The latter have the markings of a Macdonald’s “M” on their rumps which is apt as they are a favourite “take away” for lions. Zebras crossed the road, buffalo hid in the bushes, wart hogs did “piggy” things and monkeys sneered at us from the tree tops. If we are descended from apes surely I would be better at climbing trees? A herd of 22 elephants cavorted in a swamp trying to keep cool.

A huge boabob tree stood in the centre of the park. It looked as though it had been there for thousands of years. It had that “established” look.

“From the time of Jesus,” suggested Linda. John nodded in agreement and, as he was the only one with a book on boabob trees at home (just how many books on boabob trees are there?) we deferred to his greater authority.

Mahango is one of the few game reserves where you can get out of your vehicle. No doubt there is a disclaimer against being eaten by lions or trampled by buffalo. For some reason John didn’t want to be mauled by lions and only left the car with great reluctance. Attracted by the evocative sounds of singing hippos we pushed our way through the bushes behind the boabob tree to be confronted by a vast plain stretching out before us. The river with singing hippos and flying white egrets was a fair distance away, and beyond that lay a range of mountains from which many palls of dusky smoke drifted lazily into the sky.

I had made a carrot cake especially for the trip. After slicing off its burnt bottom and disguising it with a soft cheese and icing sugar topping it looked almost edible. Unfortunately, the heat of the car melted the top, and most now was creeping across the boot of Linda’s car leaving the cake looking as though it had a pepperoni pizza topping. Strangely enough, the monkeys at the picnic site made no attempt to steal our food. The cake was unexpectedly delicious. I may try putting real pepperoni on the top next time.

Have you ever lain in bed in a semi conscious state and gradually become aware of a persistent sound in the background that you feel you’ve been listening to forever? A semi conscious state is my natural milieu. Some are born zombie, some achieve zombie and some have zombie thrust upon them. I am definitely in the second category. It was all my own work, in fact, my life’s achievement. Ask me what I did yesterday and I wouldn’t have a clue. See, zombie. In fact, Karin (our intrepid, Dutch house mate) asked me if I’d had a good morning. My mind was blank. I couldn’t for the life of me remember what I had done that morning (zombie). In my defense, it transpired that I had done nothing. “It’s senile dementia,” you will be thinking. No. I’ve always had it. Is there such a thing as juvenile dementia? Can brain cells die when they’ve never been used?

As I was saying, if I can remember that far back, the night in question, I was falling into a deeper state of unconsciousness, (commonly called sleep) when my unused brain cells became aware of a persistent sound in the background. It was not an unpleasant sound, such as howling mongrels or cock crowing, so I let it be. But it did not go away. It sounded as though it was coming from a neighbouring garden so it was nothing to do with me. It was not my responsibility. I fancied it sounded like crackling flames. Someone must be having a midnight bonfire. But there was no smell of smoke. This was unusual because even when nobody is having a bonfire in Rundu the air smells of wood smoke, which in itself is not unpleasant, putting you in mind of a) delicious braai, b) roasting chestnuts c) Guy Fawkes, take your pick. It definitely sounded like fire. If our neighbour’s house was not burning down then maybe ours was? This thought was more than usually motivating and, clothed only in the cloak of night (tropical nights are very balmy), I peeked out of our bedroom door.

Bats have very sensitive directional antennae. They can fly through a forest without hitting a tree. When was the last time you found a dead bat lying at the foot of a tree? [QED] I have never particularly wanted to be a bat. Black is so passé nowadays. Just thought, that would have made me Batman, no? Cool. Anyway, I could have used the bat’s keen auditory abilities that night. The fire was at the front door; no, in the garage; yes, the garage. But there were no flames dancing merrily through the garage window and no smell of smoke. I listened again. It could be a waterfall. Had the rains begun already? My last remaining brain cell woke up. What was in the garage apart from beer bottles, boxes, Linda’s car and a pile of spare parts which had cost her a fortune to replace? (She’d already, and very honestly, warned us against buying her car.) The hot water tank, of course. It must be spewing its contents all over Linda’s car. Well, at least she’ll have a clean car. I lifted the garage door and a blast of hot air hit me. It was like entering a sauna. All our precious hot water was being dumped onto the garage floor. It didn’t even have the decency to land on Linda’s car. But even Linda, the next morning found enough hot water to have a shower. But isn’t that the way in Africa? Disaster might strike and it often does, but by some miracle or quirk of fate things seem to work out ok in the end. I don’t understand it but long may it last.

Mary came for us in her old, battered, dusty, red car. She was a self-confessed missionary with  Inland Africa Mission.  Looking for all the world like everyone’s maiden aunt, she inspected our clothes. Good, I was wearing long trousers (God doesn’t like shorts, apparently) and stout shoes. We may have to trek halfway across Namibia. When she looked at Georgina’s clothes she frowned. This, in fact was the same look our children give when they disapprove of her choice of garment. Though her skirt descended well below the knee (Georgina’s knees have not seen daylight since circa 1975), Mary thought this might offend the elders. Maybe Linda had a cloth…..? Linda didn’t. Georgina would have to do. When women greet men they are supposed to give a little “bob” (curtsy) and offer their arm, not their hand.

As we drove along wondering what sort of National Socialist Rally we would be attending, Mary attempted to assuage our fears by explaining that the elders considered themselves as important men and we should respect them. I was a little skeptical about this but decided to go along with it in the meantime.

In the event our concerns were ill-founded. No-one frowned at Georgina’s calf muscles (mighty fine, I should add) and all seemed happy that we were there. The elders seemed good, if somewhat misguided men.

The church was built in a complex of traditional mud huts and made of traditional breeze blocks and corrugated iron. It looked like somewhere you would keep the cows. By co-incidence Mary said, “They do a wonderful nativity at Christmas”. I looked around at this pseudo cowshed. “Very realistic,” I thought. They had started laying a concrete floor but had only done a quarter before the money ran out. I thought the sandy floor was preferable. There is enough concrete in the world already.

This was Africa in the raw. Mary had explained that the service would commence once sufficient people were there. So no-one knew the exact time of the service. But if you were late you were in big trouble. A large pit had been dug at the entrance of the church. Maybe this was for latecomers?

Fortunately, we arrived just before the choir processed in. They looked very smart in grey skirts/trousers, white blouses/shirts, and red hats/ties. They swayed and they swaggered in true African style. The African drumming was superb. We had brought our own picnic chairs and were surrounded by mothers and little children who looked at us as though we were from out of space. They were mostly refugees from Angola and I’m still not sure what language they were speaking . Fortunately, the proceedings were translated by Zac, who appeared to have the Holy Spirit about him. (It transpired he was a student at the local Bible Seminary and was someone I would trust).

The Psalm 117 was read:

Praise the Lord, all you nations;

Extol you all you peoples.

For great is his love towards us,

And the faithfulness of the Lord endures for ever.

I looked up at the translator. He seemed to be looking directly at me. I glanced behind to make sure. The acoustics were such that I could hardly make out what he was saying. I heard the words, “new”, “friend” “thanks” “psalm”. There was silence. I looked at Georgina. What was i supposed to do? “ You have to stand up and give thanks for the psalm,” she urged. I stood up. At least they give you 30 second warning at EFCC, “ I thought. I babbled something, no doubt incoherent, and was answered by a resounding “amen” in unison. Everyone seemed happy.

A second choir began to sing. They, too, stood with their backs to the congregation, so all you could see were synchronised posteriors swaying to the rhythm of the music. The effect, I have to admit, was strangely unnerving. Then the young men from the first choir stood up. This was a warriors’ song and I could picture the spears in their hands. For all I knew they could have been singing about frilly underwear, but when they had finished I wanted to go hunt impala with them. The ladies choir stood up. This was turning into an eisteddfod. They shuffled their feet in the sand in time to the music and the effect was mesmerising. These were women scrubbing their clothes on the river bank, their song very reminiscent of the work songs of the Outer Hebrides. Though technically not the best choir there, they would have got my vote for the foot shuffle alone.

One of the deacons gave the sermon. “You have to be born again” he kept repeating, becoming louder each time. This was looking hopeful. “To be born again is to be merciful to the whole world,” and he demonstrated this by sweeping his arms wide apart. He stared at us in silence. Was he expecting a reply? He didn’t get one, so he started again. “To be born again is to do good works.” Again he stopped. “Faith without works is nothing.” My cynical mind momentarily wondered if he were building up to asking someone to do his laundry. That washing song may have had something to do with it and he was addressing a lot of his remarks to the ladies.

I had the impression that in a valiant attempt to hit the bulls eye he had missed the target altogether. He carried on in like vein and lost a lot of arrows. But what he lacked in theology he made up for in fervour. He confronted the ladies choir and I heard the word “condemnation”. They quaked in their shoes but did not reply. Maybe, like me, they just did not understand the question? The main minister stood up at the end and added his own thoughts about being born again, but, by now my brain was so addled that a child of six reciting nursery rhymes would not have made sense. The church with its corrugated iron roof was one giant oven, the temperature of which had been increasing the three hours since morning. I was now medium rare. By the end of the service I would be done to a crisp. The temperature was not lost on the minister. “You can feel the heat of the sun on this corrugated roof. Imagine how much hotter it will be in the bowels of hell.” He, no doubt, was assuming this was to be our ultimate destination.

After the service we shook hands with some of the members.

“Oops, I keep forgetting to curtsey,” said Georgina.

“You curtsey to anyone and I’ll disown you” I replied.

My mind went back to our visit to the ELCIN church the previous week, so different and yet so similar. Both were run by good and sincere people but I wanted more. I wanted to listen to listen to someone like Rich at the Epping Forest Community Church who knew God in his heart, would expound the whole Gospel and reveal the true glory of God.

It’s an old adage, I know, but nevertheless true, that you can search the whole world for something only to discover you had it at home all the time. I’m going to stop there before this over-sentimentality makes me want to vom……..oops, too late. B-R-E-N-D-A……..!!!! Where is our cleaner?

I went shopping today. This is not exactly news as I go shopping most days. Today, however, was different. I have given up looking out of the window in the morning and wondering what the weather will be like as it is hot and sunny most days. The days when it is not hot and sunny it is sunny and hot. I am not yet fed-up of this as I am still making up for a life time of sun deprivation. But when I ventured out of doors this morning the sky looked different. It was still blue but today there were some white, wispy things up there. I haven’t seen one for a long time but I think they call them clouds. There are two periods of rain in Namibia, the little rain and the big rain. The little rain occurs mid October and the big rain at the end of December. It was 1^st October today, so the little rain is imminent. Georgina and I are only equipped for the little rain as we only have a little umbrella. When the big rains come we are going to get wet.

The clouds were premature. It has not rained today. The only wet I became today was from my own sweat dripping onto my neck and trickling down my back. Had I stayed out any longer, the trickle was in danger of becoming a raging torrent.

Shopping recently has become a life and death experience, quite literally. Rundu has opened a new shopping mall, small, compact and boasting a brand new escalator. It has opened for business but they are still building it. To by a loaf of bread you have to enter a building site, and without a hard hat. Avoid the piles of bricks and dumper trucks. Weave your way around the scaffolding and pray that the workmen above you don’t drop a brick or piece of scaffolding on your head. Don’t look up or you will lose your footing on the polished marble ramp which, I suspect is Rundu’s substitute for a ski piste. Try as it might, I don’t think Rundu will ever be in contention to host the Winter Olympics. I inadvertently tried out the ski slope this morning and nearly fell on my first attempt. I was spared any serious injury (no bruising to my first attempt) apart from the horror of hearing the peanut butter jar crash against the marble ramp and realising the eggs were in the same bag. Miraculously, nothing was broken, though the peanut butter seems crunchier now.

Once you are in the mall the only other danger is from high prices. Food prices seem comparable to those in the UK, the choice isn’t as big and the quality isn’t as good. I suspect the managers ring Mr Sainsbury everyday to find out what he is charging. The shelves are fully stocked but this may be because no-one can afford to buy anything. Stealing isn’t an option either if you were that way inclined. To leave the shop you have to negotiate what can only be described as a tight line of riot police who will study your receipt, inspect your bags, eye you up suspiciously and only let you out if everything checks out. If you buy nothing you will be frisked. This, I suspect, may not be an altogether unpleasant experience for some, but Marguerite was outraged the other day when an overzealous guard wanted to see inside her handbag.

“I have come here to help this crazy country, yet you treat us like criminals.” She protested.

But all the stores are the same. They are all rife with crime and that’s only the prices they charge. Two new supermarkets have opened in the last month so competition may push prices down unless they, too, have a hotline to Mr Sainsbury. I am not holding my breath.

The most exciting thing about the mall is the escalator (I can’t believe I said that - my life must have become very sad). But it is a very versatile escalator. When I saw it the other day it was full of joy riders and they were going up. Today it was empty and the direction of travel was down. There are not yet any shops on the upper level so the escalator’s use is purely for pleasure. You can tell the escalator virgins as they have not yet realised that hands and feet have to be co-ordinated. One without the other spells disaster but great entertainment for any onlooker. One brave lady, the other day grabbed hold of the handrail as though her life depended upon it, but her feet let her down at the last minute. She was practically sprawled on the steps before her feet decided to join her. Her 2 children looked on aghast as if this monster was devouring their mother. It was not enough, however, to stop them trying out the novelty for themselves. Don’t mock. We were like this once.

The English service at the ELCIN Church begins at 7am or sometime thereafter. Linda, Georgina and I arrived at 7am with Nico and Margaarith in their Toyota 4 by 4. Nico and Margaarith are an elderly, Dutch couple who have finished one 2 year stint with VSO and have extended for a further 18 months. Nico is a biologist and can tell you which snakes and spiders are poisonous. This can be useful to some but not so much to people like me who work on the principle that all snakes and spiders are poisonous. This is akin to the HIV principle of “If in doubt don’t do it”. I am very abstemious when it comes to snakes and spiders, and dogs, if it comes to that.

Once in the church Nico took out his organ and erected it facing the pews in the chancel. Nico is big in the church and without his organ the congregation would have to sing “a capella” (without hats). We sit on one of the pews at the front. There are a handful of people behind us.

“Don’t worry,” Margaarith reassures me,” the pews will be full once we start”. She is either over optimistic or believes in miracles.

The church was as empty and as reverberant as a large warehouse. We faced a huge mural painted in bold colours seemingly executed by a class of above averagely artistic 9 year olds, telling the gospel from Adam and Eve to the Resurrection. One stood amazed how the whole Bible could be condensed onto one wall.

A face appeared at the doorway at the front of the church. Then the rest of a man emerged. H e was tall, thin and wore a black coat that nearly touched his toes. The most astounding part of his wardrobe, however, was his long, white shoes. He looked like a vampire who had been to a disco all night. He shrugged his shoulders and Margaarith nodded as if giving her approval that it was safe to start. The acoustics of the building were such that they succeeded in mixing all the ministers’ words into one incomprehensible blur. The words that stood more chance of being understood occurred at the beginning of sentence since the minister’s voice trailed off at the end allowing his words to escape and evaporate towards the roof. This was accompanied with much gesticulation as if signing to crazy deaf people at the back of the church. Nico warmed up his organ and we had a hymn. I think it was in Africaans as it looked like dyslexic German (or even Dutch), but I wasn’t sure. At any rate, I contorted my mouth into all sorts of impossible shapes to try and approximate the sound, if not the meaning. I could have been singing the telephone directory for all I knew except that I recognised the word “God” mentioned twice so it may have been the telephone directory for the Vatican.

The acoustics deceived me into thinking that only Margaarith and I were singing. It was then that I had an unusual feeling of being watched. I glanced behind and, to my astonishment, saw that the church was packed behind me. They stood stock still and made no sound. The effect was eerie. Some responses followed and, for a moment, I was back in an English Parish Church, except the sun was shining outside.

We sang a song in the local language, Rutwangalli. Still no-one sang. It later transpired that it was in the wrong local language.

“These hymns are rubbish”, Margaarith suddenly announced in disgust. I had to agree. “Who chose them?” I asked. “I did,” she replied. I had to admire her candour. “They wouldn’t sing them in Holland,” she continued. “Especially if they’re in Rutwangali,” I thought but kept it to myself.

The Old Testament and Gospels were read. Then came the best song, the words of which show a distinctly Calvinist influence. I was so delighted here are the first 2 verses:

Work, for the night is coming,

Work through the morning hours.

Work while the dew is sparking (sic),

Work ‘mid the springing flowers.

Work when the days grow brighter,

Work in the glowing sun,

Work for the night is coming,

When man’s work is done.

Work for the night is coming,

Work through the sunny noon

Fill brightest hours with labour

Rest cones sure and soon.

Give every flying minute

Something to keep in store,

Work for the night is coming,

When man works no more.

One particularly intriguing line occurred in the fourth verse. We were exhorted to:

Work for daylight flies.

This was a new concept for me as my predilection is to swat them, night-time ones, too, if it came to that. I, for one was exhausted after all that work.

At last some meat. It was time for the sermon. I assumed the most comfortable posture possible on that hard, wooden pew and waited expectantly. Would it be 15 minutes, 30, an hour? An hour might be a bit much when we could only make out one word in ten, so we prayed for 15. Our prayers were answered and in abundance. The minister stopped at three. Alleluia.

“He hasn’t prepared anything this week”, Margaarith whispered in my ear.

“You surprise me”, I thought, joyfully.

“The worst one yet,” was the general consensus in the car afterwards. It was pretty dire, I had to admit, though hugely amusing. What I could not poke fun at, however, was the sincerity and hard work of those struggling against great odds to make their worship meaningful. The mountain they had to climb, however, seemed truly daunting. If nothing else it would be a testament to Man’s persistence against impossible odds. Their main handicap it seemed to me was a complete lack of spiritual leadership. I have been only once to this church so my judgement may be a little hasty and unfair. The minister seemed nice enough and well-meaning. But there lurks in the back of my mind the uncharitable suspicion that he had been the seminary cleaner when the degrees had been given out and he somehow joined the wrong queue. This, it was pointed out to me, could not have been true as the church had not been cleaned for weeks. May God forgive me.

This will probably be a short entry as I shall probably fall asleep over my computer. The reason is simple. Throughout every night we are subjected to the deafening cacophony of a hundred Baskerville hounds seemingly baying for our blood. The effect is spine-chillingly awful. It can start with one puppy spluttering over a chicken bone and within seconds the whole of Rundu resounds to the howls of huge packs of pseudo wolves. They snarl and threaten each other. “You want a piece of me, you come and get me”. And they often do. One place for carving each other up seems to be just outside our bedroom window, and given the fact that there is no glass in it, just fine mosquito net and a few slats, a savage fight can sound alarmingly near. I have not dared put on the light in case they are actually in the bedroom.

Almost as annoying is the irritation felt at seeing these very same dogs the next morning stretched out under a shady tree snoozing the daylight hours away so that they can stop us sleeping at night. Rose took us on a tour of Rundu in her car. We passed many dozing dogs. “Swerve to the left,” I urged as we approached one, but Rose could not be prevailed upon to decrease the dog population by a measly one. Neither should revenge tempt you to give a dozing dog a hefty kick up the north pole. This is rabies country, after all. Let sleeping dogs lie. What puzzles me, though, is, if Africans are prepared to eat dog, then why are there still so many of them around? They are a good source of nutrients and they probably taste as good as a steak. Eat more dog is what I say.

Then the cocks start crowing. Don’t believe these creatures only crow at dawn. I can personally vouch for the fact that, given half a chance they will crow all through the night. There is a cock a few houses away. Its call is answered by one a quarter of a mile down the road, then by one a quarter of a mile further on and so on until the sound of the cock reached Windhoek seven hundred miles away. Georgina assures me that when her grandfather kept cocks he would put them overnight in a coop where the ceiling was so low the cocks couldn’t stretch out their necks to crow. Ignore the connotations of medieval torture. This sounds like a good idea.

In the rare and, oh so brief, moments of silence in the night I can hear something prowling in the garden. It sounds as if it has the weight and dimensions of a gorilla. It can’t be John the gardener as he only comes on Mondays and Thursdays. What it is and what it’s doing I do not and don’t wish to know. Besides, Georgina is safely between me and the window, so I snuggle down under my mosquito net choosing to ignore that a rampant primate would make short work of a flimsy bit of lace.

A new horror has emerged to destroy any chance of a goodnight’s sleep. Yesterday, a couple were married next door. Part of the tradition is to ensure that anyone within a one mile radius gets no sleep that night. They easily achieve this with what sounds like a hundred African drummers a choir of a thousand well versed in African chants and excessively loud ululations. You have to remember that our windows are neither double nor even single glazed. This facilitates the sounds travelling directly from their drums and voices to our ears with no let or hindrance. After 2 hours your brain begins to throb. After 4 you are on the verge of insanity. After 6, your thoughts turn to bloody murder. Each of our gardens in this part of town has a large and substantial air raid shelter plonked in the middle of it to protect the population against Angolan shelling during the regional uprising a few years ago. Contrary to popular belief, they were not shelling Namibia for helping their enemies in the war but, I believe, to stop the nightly cacophony of dogs, cocks and weddings. Unfortunately, they did not succeed.