Hayestack

Hats off to VSO. They don’t send you out unprepared into the bush. They train you how to swat mosquitoes and wrestle with crocodiles first. Training takes place under a canopy out of doors. If you are unlucky the sun will slide around and strike you on the top of your head when you least expect it. A bottle of water within reach of your right hand is always essential. Snatch it up as soon as the first signs of dehydration appear.

The training sessions were an invaluable source of amusement. I shall never forget the sight of Daan, our esteemed leader, wrestling with a flip-chart page, that had been whipped up by the wind. Try as he might he could not keep it down. The persistent page kept flapping around even when Daan practically threw himself across it. Eventually somebody brought a large dollop of Blutak. Concentrating on what he was saying he proceeded to apply it a to the wrong plage. I am ashamed to say that I was too amused at the sight of Daan wrestling with the flip chart to help him out of his predicament. Shame on me.

The highlight of the week was, possibly, the “drop-off” exercise. We were to be abandoned in an obscure, if not dangerous part of Windhoek, be obliged to visit nearby organisations and take a taxi back to the VSO centre.

My group comprised Laura, Barbara and myself. We were dropped off in one of the coloured/black townships. Fortunately, Georgina and I had explored this area a couple of days previously so I knew roughly where we were.

Our first stop was at the Tabitha Church and Care Home. The Rev. Wilhelm Pieters, (or was it Pieter Wilhelms?) sat in his oversized leather chair, the lord of all he surveyed. Don’t get the wrong idea. This was a good man. Though he was the big chief of his area in the Evangelical Lutheran Church, a legacy of former German colonisation, he seemed dissatisfied that his work comprised mostly bureaucracy involved with the care home and social work.

“I want to get back to the people and get dirt under my fingernails”, he said. Given the state of local housing I didn’t think it would take him long.

The second organisation we had to visit was the NTA (National Training Authority). This taught plumbing, electric skills, brick-laying etc. In fact, the skills you can never find in the UK. I wondered what the call-out charge would be from Windhoek to London. Prohibitive, no doubt.

We bumped into the cook. Joseph, the Principal could not be found. She insisted on giving us a tour of the premises ending with the cafeteria which was her pride and joy. On our way out she suggested we pay our respects to the Principal before we left. The Principal was not to be found. The Administrative assistant insisted on giving us a tour of the offices. How could we refuse? They had some lovely offices, and the toilets were useful , but, as they say, when you’ve seen one office you’ve seen them all.

We stood by the side of the road waiting for a taxi. A red, battered , old banger slowly came to a halt in front of us. Maybe the engine had given up? Someone was sitting in the passenger seat. Thank goodness, it was already taken. We would wait for another. The passenger got in the back and the driver beckoned us inside. He intended us to share. This, no doubt, was part of the VSO Windhoek taxi experience. We determined to take it in our stride. Laura, taking advantage of Barbara’s and my state of shock, nipped in by the driver. I, in an uncharacteristic flash of chivalry, slid in next to the black man leaving Barbara only about 2 inches of seat. Barbara, who I’m sure would not be offended if I described her figure as less than twig-like, seemed reluctant to attempt the 2 inches and would only enter once I had squashed the stranger against the car door. The banger accelerated slowly. I wondered if it would ever reach a cruising speed. The roundabout occurred before I had a chance to find out. Turning right at junctions where you have to cross the flow of oncoming traffic produced the greatest adrenalin rush. It was a game of chance where our lives were the forfeit. The driver, no doubt had the accelerator nailed to the floor as cars hurtled towards us. The image of a white car closing on us at speed while our car struggles to gain momentum, is printed indelibly on my brain.

I can safely say that I have not been more intimate with anyone since I married Georgina 36 years ago. The G force produced by the car’s swerving around corners projected my body forcefully and irresistibly against that of the stranger. My hips were already pressing hard against Barbara’s. That wasn’t so bad. I knew Barbara slightly and she didn’t seem the sort to cry “rape” at the drop of a hat. What was the local word for “sorry” ? “Mpandu?” No, that meant “thankyou” in Rutwangali. I could hardly say that. Mercifully, the car stopped and the stranger got out. With relief, I moved across the seat, free of any ambiguous, and, I have to say, unintentional, physical contact. Barbara looked relieved as well.

Sitting that evening on the Ojari terrace overlooking Windhoek and sipping a bottle of Windhoek lager, I had to conclude that this drop-off exercise, fun though it was , proved inefficient as a means of “weeding out” the weakest volunteers. More effective would have been a “drop-off point in the middle of the Namib desert. The toughest would have survived and the rest would have 2 years to get to the airport before their visas ran out if not stung to death by scorpions before. VSO are too soft.

Tags: Daan, Rutwangali, VSO, Windhoek | 91 views

This entry was posted on Tuesday, September 23rd, 2008 at 4:35 pm and is filed under Namibia. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.