The Road to Rundu
By the end of the week’s training session in Windhoek everyone was anxious to reach their placement and start doing their bit for Namibia. Some were staying in Windhoek but most were going to see the real Africa up north. The details of where we would all be living were sketchy at best. Georgina and I knew, for example, that we would be sharing a house with established volunteers, Linda and Rose, and new girl, Karin, who is Dutch and makes her name sound like “Garry”. Other knew precious little. Alison, for example was told by the previous volunteer that she would have a mattress under the desk in her office in the middle of nowhere. He didn’t seem to be joking, she told me with alarm. When pressed about other aspects of the placement he was either non-committal or avoided the question altogether. This inevitably raised concern and not a little anxiety. His claims that he enjoyed the job were less than convincing. Nevertheless, Alison, to her credit, determined to carry on manfully (or should it be womanfully) and is now, no doubt snug on her mattress under the desk in her office in the middle of nowhere.
It is not that she came totally unequipped. Her former colleagues had had a whip around and bought her a very smart jungle hat which to my mind bore a striking resemblance to a female version of the old colonial pith helmet. It led me to wonder if her colleagues, in giving Alison this elegant and, moreover, useful gift, they weren’t actually taking it (the pith, that is).
It was in these last days in Windhoek that we met Namibia’s future top model. She was sure of this and, judging by her tall, slim body, air of grace and deportment I wouldn’t be surprised if she were right. Georgina and I were heading in the same direction as Albertina down one of the back streets towards the centre of Windhoek when she introduced herself. She was certainly more friendly than any supermodel I had read about. She was still in training so probably hadn’t done the module on surliness and phone throwing yet. We walked down Robert Mugabe Avenue and I had an overwhelming desire to spit, which is strange because I never feel that way when walking down Nelson Mandela Avenue. Mugabe apparently is regarded by many African leaders as a father figure for his role in helping his country achieve independence, but his present work of systematically destroying his own people seems to be strangely overlooked. Maybe Hitler would have been forgiven the holocaust had he won his war.
There wasn’t much room in the mini-bus when the six of us going to Rundu had piled in with our entire luggage. Georgina and I sat in the back, our journey made more interesting by the imminent collapse of the luggage stacked behind us. An unexpected zebra crossing, or wart hog, or ostrich could have caused an avalanche.
The seven hour journey from Windhoek took us through continuous scrub land, the tedium of which was alleviated at regular intervals by the small towns of Okahandja, Otjiwarongo, Otavi and Grootfontein. Try saying those after your third bottle of Windhoek Beer (or before it if it comes to that). The roads were metalled, straight and quiet, though not deserted. An occasional mountain would rear up in the distance then disappear. Hannah asked where the Red Line was. I said I knew a Red Lion in Shrewsbury but she was less than amused. Then we were upon it. Armed guards eyed us suspiciously. Beyond this was rabies country. As they let us through I made a mental note not to foam at the mouth on the way back.
We drew near to Rundu and the scenery began to change. There were more trees and groups of huts began to appear. These were mostly made of traditional materials, branches and thatch though here and there were shacks of corrugated iron to blot the landscape. Occasionally, an abandoned and rusting car with its wheels missing added an extra touch of western squalor. But that’s progress for you.