Hayestack

Willy and Hilion on their cell phones.

We couldn’t find Kei Mouth on the map because Willy, Danie’s aged parent, insisted on calling it Kei Mon. Willy had a strange sense of humour. I’m still not sure whether the biltong he gives us to eat is actually giraffe as he claims or not. “I good at English” he tells us. “Speak me no question,” he says to prove it. This, of course is just part of his act, which he rehearses a surprising number of times while we are with him. As you can imagine, he is an absolute scream.

He and his wife, Hilion, have kindly consented to give us a lift to the coastal village of Kei Mouth, just north of East London, where they will spend their annual vacation with their four children and assorted spouses. Lifts in Africa are paying affairs. No-one has much money so you, quite rightly, pay your share of the transport costs and accommodation. Willy had been a minister in the Dutch Reformed Church until they had a falling out about something fairly crucial, namely, amongst other things, the presence of Jesus in your life. Since then he has been involved in a number of money making schemes. He has been a melon trader and currently runs a pancake stall in the Saturday Farmer’s Market in Bloemfontein. Neither of these has dampened his evangelical zeal and is keen on an organisation from the USA called “Christ Love”. “Willy loves to preach,” we are warned. “When you have had enough, tell him so. My husband just walks away,” says one well-wisher. In fact, Willy is quite refreshing. We were growing tired of the “prosperity gospel” that we have heard preached so much in Africa. You know the sort of thing, believe in God and you will have a big car and a grand house. To hear the message that the only thing worth having is the living presence of Jesus in your life has the definite ring of truth about it. After all those years of being a minister in the Dutch Reformed Church it is wonderful that he has at last come to recognise the living presence of Jesus in his life.

The day of our departure from Bloemfontein does not start particularly well. We have been told that Willy and Hilion would be making a leisurely start, say about 11am. At 9am Kathleen says that we have to be ready to go in 30 minutes. Panic stations. We haven’t begun to pack. We bundle everything into our rucksacks and we are ready to go. It is sad to say goodbye. Kathleen and John have been such good hosts and have practically made us members of their family. Marie did a very efficient job organising our travel to the coast and booking our bus back to Rundu on the internet.

As Kathleen drives us to Willy and Hillion’s house we worry that we may be delaying their departure. We arrive to find Willy outside in nothing but a pair of shorts cleaning a large tarpaulin. They won’t be ready for a few hours yet. This gives us time to accompany Kathleen on her weekly visit to John’s mother who lives in an old folks’ home a short distance away. “She can be a difficult woman,” warns Kathleen, “so don’t mind what she says.” Old people are supposed to be cantankerous, aren’t they? I look forward to being so when i get old, which is a long way off. We stop off for a few groceries and cigarettes. These are rationed as mother would smoke them all in one go if she could. She has good fug going by the time we reach her room. Is she smoking or burning a pile of wet leaves? Her outline emerges through the smoke. She is pleased to see us and is on her best behaviour. She speaks fairly good English with a deep, husky voice. She sounds like and elderly Lauren Bacall and the atmosphere is pleasant and warm, in fact, disappointingly, no drama at all. A sepia photo on the wall shows a smartly dressed young man and a beautiful young lady. What couple they must have been in their heyday. On the way out we pick an apricot off one of the trees in the grounds. Someone taps on the window. The apricot is hard anyway so we chuck it away.

Willy and co. are still packing so we go back to Kathleen’s for a cup of coffee. When we’d parted an hour previously I had wondered if we would ever see this family again. I never dreamt it would be so soon.

First goodbyes are difficult, second are just plain embarrassing. However, we survive.

In the photo you can see (l to r) Danie, who is married to Marie, who is the daughter of John, who is married to Kathleen, who is the friend of Georgina, who is married to the illusive cameraman.

It is a special delight to visit this family as we thought we would never see them again when they returned to South Africa after a time working in the UK. We sit sipping cool drinks on their front lawn in the cool of the late afternoon. It is not long before the question of security crops up. It is a subject that John feels strongly about and is never far from his thoughts. He gives a catalogue of who has been mugged and murdered recently in the neighbourhood. A local shopkeeper was shot and killed the other day for his meagre takings. You are vulnerable everywhere but particularly at ATM’s. Beware of who’s watching you. Too many young thugs have guns. You are not safe in your own home. They will think nothing of bursting in and shooting you. They will hi-jack your car while you are stopped at the lights (called robots in SA). John knew someone in Pretoria who had stopped at a red light, was confronted by a gunman and was shot in the arm as he sped away. Only last year Hermann, his son, had had his brand new Navarro 4 x 4 stolen from their very drive. He had only just registered it and a corrupt official had passed the details to a gang of car thieves. I get the impression that John feels less than safe in his own country and all this talk is beginning to make me feel paranoid. Will we ever get out of South Africa with our lives? The constant, perceived threat of imminent danger is having a deleterious effect on the quality of life here. Even if the real threat is exaggerated, the perceived threat in people’s minds is real. In effect, they are prisoners of their own perceptions. John has no confidence in the police force. He says they are unresponsive and ineffective. He thinks many of them are indolent and barely literate. He believes the law would allow him to shoot an armed intruder in self defence. John has a gun and tells me where it is hidden. I shall know where to run if we are attacked in the next few days. I just hope it’s as easy to operate as I don’t want to shoot myself in the foot. On second thoughts, maybe it would be safer to throw my hands in the air and let intruders take what they want. John seems to have had enough. The constant concern about safety is very wearing.

Ann, Kathleen’s elder daughter, is visiting with her cute little Annika and Lisa. After dinner, John goes out to see them off. Suddenly he rushes into the lounge in a high state of agitation and shouting madly. “Phone the police,” he yells. They have taken Ann and the car. It takes us a few moments for the enormity of the situation to sink in. Five black gunmen have hijacked Ann’s new 4×4 and taken her and four year old Lisa hostage. Kathleen and Marie are naturally distraught and we all rush around not knowing what to do for the best. John had already locked the garden gate and felt helpless as his daughter was kidnapped. One thief had pointed a gun at him and he was lucky to have escaped with his life. John and I jump into Dani and Marie’s bakkie to look for Ann. Kathleen thrusts a stun gun into my hand. These gunmen had better not try anything now that I’m armed. I must remember not to stun myself. Halfway along the road a neighbour flags us down. Ann has managed to escape and rushed into a neighbour’s house with Lisa. She is, naturally, very shocked but unhurt apart from a sore shoulder where one gunman had struck her with the butt of his pistol as she tried to escape and a graze to her leg when she fell down in the road. Back safely with her family she tells of her ordeal. The gunmen spring up from nowhere. They must have been hiding in the patch of waste ground next to the house. Ann was bundled back into the car with Lisa at which point the men had a disagreement about whether Ann should be in the front. This confusion gave Ann the chance to escape. Ann said she was calm and confident as she felt the reassuring presence of God in the car with her.

“Stop or I’ll shoot you,” yelled one of the men. “Shoot me then,” replied Ann as she stepped out and ran.

John says that hi-jackings are a common occurrence here and we all thank God that no-one was hurt. The fact that Ann was deliberately kidnapped was a worrying turn of events. It does not require much imagination to picture Ann’s fate had she not escaped. These men think nothing of rape and murder says John with evident disgust. Thieves target expensive 4x4s and they are often stolen to order. They are taken out of the country, typically to Mozambique. In fact, Ann’s car is later found near the Mozambique border. It’s not a good idea to have an expensive car in South Africa. It’s much safer to drive an old, battered Fiat or Toyota. Kathleen jokes that she could leave her little, old banger in the road with the keys in it and no-one would steal it. Now, that’s the sort of car to have. The next day John lifts up his polo shirt to show me his gun strapped around his waist. Last evening’s events have just reinforced his worst fears.

The rest of our stay in Bloemfontein was less eventful, though a car was broken into outside the hotel where Ann was staying. We did normal things like visit the shopping mall and garden nurseries where there were playgrounds for Annika and Lisa. We went to the Saturday Farmers’ Market which was a strange experience since there was hardly a black face to be seen. Although apartheid has been formally abolished, the races don’t seem to mix much. Separate living still exists and will probably take a long time to die out. This is not the case in Namibia where there is far more racial integration and a more relaxed security situation. Since we’ve been living there the only crimes we’ve experienced are the thefts of some straggly cabbages from our garden, a bag of rubbish from our wheely bin and Georgina drinking half of my glass of wine, a persistent crime which shows no sign of abating.

Dusk descends as we leave Windhoek for Upington, South Africa. An Aussie accent breaks the silence. He is a boiler maker back home and works for only part of the year to make enough money to globe-trot. On this trip he has already been to India and northern Africa and is on his way to Pretoria, then on to South America. It appears that he has not seen much water on his travels and has certainly not wasted it on personal hygiene. His Medusan dreadlocks move as though they have a life of their own and his bushy beard is, no doubt, the home to many forms of wildlife. This lone Aussie is not alone. As we journey around South Africa we come across a number of antipodeans, each one travelling alone. Maybe they don’t like each other’s company?

There is even less room at the front of these buses than at the back. I try to stretch my legs and end up practically lying sprawled across Georgina’s lap. I hope I don’t push out the windscreen with my feet in my sleep, though this would certainly improve ventilation. We visit more filling stations throughout the night, each one identical to the last, and arrive at the border as the sun rises behind the distant mountains throwing a golden glow over the vast, arid plain stretching out before us. We make the mistake of using the dirty and, no doubt disease-ridden Namibian toilets to freshen up, unaware of the new South African ones at their custom post just down the road. This is no “drive through” border as between France and Germany. We queue at the Namibian customs and everything is checked. Half a mile down the road at the South African customs we do the same thing again. This time a sniffer dog is let loose on the bus and I hope it doesn’t find our sandwiches. At least this is a chance to stretch our legs and watch the sun rise. We are in South Africa. There are few trees and the social weaver birds have built giant nests enveloping telegraph poles by the side of the road. We don’t see any birds, so we assume they are being sociable inside.

The scenery has been created on an epic scale. Huge tracts of savannah spread out as far as the purple mountains on the horizon. There are no people, no animals except for a few zebras and ostriches which stir up dust clouds as they run. We eventually see a few ramshackle huts on the hillside but no occupants. Further along, a township comes into view. These are made of breeze blocks and regimented into tight rows. They seem the human equivalent of battery farming. Some huts are painted bright, garish colours possibly in an attempt to give them some character and individuality. The rest remain drab and ugly. The bus passes on giving us just a brief glimpse. We are lucky. Some people have to spend their lives there.

We are an hour late as we arrive at Upington. This is a thriving, commercial town with a large industrial zone on the outskirts. We learn later that Upington grows some of the sweetest melons in South Africa. The route gives us a tour of the industrial area on our way to the bus stop. Our first impressions are not favourable. When you’ve seen one factory…. Though we are late, our connecting bus will wait. Our new driver stands patiently by the bus that will take us on to Bloemfontein. There is no rush. This is Africa. We are alone on the bus. A few passengers join us. We wait for more. The idling engine fades and dies. The driver tries to restart it, but fails. This is not the luxury bus we are used to. It has seen better days. The engine eventually splutters into life but it is now making a high-pitched whine and peters out after a couple of minutes. Two drivers from our Upington bus take a look. They give our driver plenty of advice in Africaans but the engine still does not respond. They take out their mobile phones and gabble into them incomprehensibly. This, too, has no effect upon the engine. More drastic action is required. One driver lifts up the engine housing at the back of the bus and all but climbs in. He emerges with hands covered in oil and an expression on his face akin to that of Lady Macbeth after she has slain Duncan. “Is this a carburettor I see before me?” Astonishingly, the engine starts first time. Like Banquo’s ghost the whine gradually emerges from nowhere and the driver once more attacks the engine. The offending noise is exorcised and we take off while the going’s good. It is a matter of faith that we will eventually reach Bloemfontein. The whine threatens to emerge several times during the journey but periodic oblations of water are poured into the engine’s parched throat and catastrophe is averted.

We have crossed the Orange River (which is, in fact, brown) and are now in the Orange Free State. The area along the river is green, lush and fertile. We pass acres of vineyards and once more emerge onto vast arid plains. You can almost see hordes of Boers doggedly driving their cattle and wagons across the scrub to find a home free from British interference. The white tribe of Africa were, and still are, a tough race of fighter/farmers. They were up against it then and are up against it now. Their destiny is one of persistence and struggle.

Kimberley was famous for its diamond mines. Now it is famous for its Big Hole. We pass signs pointing to its Big Hole but go the other way. It is trying to turn itself into a tourist attraction, but just how interesting can a big hole be. Something inside me suggests that we have missed seeing a rare and wonderful sight. However, it is not difficult to suppress this feeling as we chug on accompanied by only a faint whine on our way to Bloemfontein. One thing surprises me about Kimberley. It seems that not much of the diamond wealth was spent on the town. The small part we see seems dowdy and provincial. There again, we do not see the Big Hole.

We try to send an sms text Kathleen, but our Namibian cell card doesn’t work here. We are running about 2 hours late and become concerned about poor Kathleen waiting for us in the heat. She may have dehydrated into a pile of dust by the time we arrive.

Bloemfontein lives up to its name. It is a garden city. Trees spring up as you enter its boundaries. Plant-life is diverse and profuse. Roads are grass-lined and well-cared for. People here love their environment and look after it. We drive past the new soccer stadium that will be needed for the World Cup in South Africa soon and eventually reach our terminus. Kathleen has already seen us and comes to greet her. She looks just the same as she did in Walthamstow all those years ago, and not at all dehydrated. These Boers are a tough race.

Just as in Israel at the time of the birth of Jesus, everyone in Rundu travels at Christmas.  It’s not that  we need to be registered for taxation, it’s just too hot here. At times the mercury hits the forties.

Mary and Joseph went to Bethlehem, we are going to Bloemfontein.  This is the legislative capital of South Africa, sitting smack bang in the middle of the country and is the home of our dear friends, Kathleen and John.  Funnily enough, there is a small town called Bethlehem just up the road, but we will not visit it as the inns will probably be full, i.e. no room at.

We are sitting on the forecourt of the Engen Filling Station at 10pm with Mary (see "The African Church") waiting for the Intercape Bus to take us to Windhoek and then on to South Africa.  We are advised to sit where it is light as people lose their luggage in the shadows around the corner.  Mary has completed her 3 years as a missionary in Namibia and is on her way home to Weymouth.  She hates travelling alone, so the fact that we are on the same bus as far as Windhoek can either be seen as, a) coincidence, or, b) God’s design.  Personally, I favour b).

Eventually, the brightly-lit, double-decker coach looms into view and we snuggle down for our overnight ride to Windhoek.  Only an aeroplane seat is less comfortable for sleeping and it is only sheer exhaustion that eventually renders me unconscious.  Georgina, who falls asleep before any vehicle has gone more than half a mile, has been snoozing for hours.  The bus makes a comfort stop at every 24 hour garage on the route whether we want it or not.  it has been designed (no doubt and very wisely) for someone with an acute case of diarrhoea. Or, maybe, the driver just wants a cigarette? Those of us with stronger constitutions groan as we pull into yet another garage and stumble, zombie-like off the bus and towards the nearest convenience.  The forecourt is instantly transformed into the set of  "The Night of the Living Dead". Georgina stays asleep.  How does she do that? 

We roll into Windhoek at 7.30 in the morning  and stop at the minimalist central bus station.  It is so minimalist the casual observer might think it’s just an empty car park.  In fact, it is just an empty car park, but does boast a public convenience in one corner, not that we need it after all those stops.  Our connection to Upington leaves at 6.30 this evening so we have the whole day in Windhoek.   We get plenty of amused looks as we stagger along Independence Avenue to the VSO office.  I have a huge rucksack tied to my back (Georgina insists I do up all the straps around my waist and chest, and I always forget to undo at least one when trying to take it off, with the consequence that I have to squirm and wrestle with the damn thing before it will let me go).  Also, I have a couple of large bags hanging from my neck giving me the appearance of being prematurely stooped. Georgina is dragging along her rucksack on wheels and grappling with a variety of carrier bags.  She looks for all the world like the archetypal "bag-lady".  Together we must resemble ageing hippies on our way to a music festival.  Peace and Love, man. We dump our bags at the VSO office and try to straighten up.  We creak and groan.  We have each lost at least an inch in height. 

The British have the dubious honour of having invented the concentration camp during the wars in South Africa.  However, was the Germans who transformed them into the evil instruments of terror that they became.  One of their earliest ,the "Alte Feste", can be found on the hill overlooking central Windhoek, near the Parliament building and just down the road from the President’s Palace.  It was here that the German colonists imprisoned the Herero trouble-makers who, for some reason, objected to having their land stolen and the genocide of their people.  Outside is the prominent statue of a German soldier on horse back celebrating their victory over the native peoples.  It is a wonder  that this monument to colonial repression and cruelty hasn’t been blown up years ago.  Namibians must be unusually tolerant and forgiving.

We try the railway museum.  It is situated in Windhoek station with the entrance on the south side.  The sun at midday is directly above us.  Like Peter Pan, we have no shadow.  We  climb the winding stair to reception.  It should be open but there is a metal gate barring our way.  We ring the bell.  No reply.  We ring again.  No reply.  Maybe the receptionist has had a heart attack?  We peer into the entrance hall but see no body.  Maybe this museum doesn’t like visitors?  Some don’t. We tramp down the stairs and go away.

We head for the smart shopping mall at the end of Post Street.  As I pass the installation comprising 12 or so meteorites  I notice that the person walking beside me is not Georgina but a disheveled and less than fragrant young man.  His hair is unkempt and he has a strange look in his watery eyes.  He is walking too close to me and I begin to feel distinctly uneasy.  He tells me he has just been let out of a mental hospital.  He needs the fare to get home.  His bus leaves in half an hour. Could I give him some money?  I turn around and see Georgina lagging behind pretending to look in a shop window.  I lead the madman away.  No need for us both to be knifed.  Peering out of the corner of my eye, I see no weapon about his person but his demeanour yells "unpredictable" at me.  Resorting to the last refuge of a scoundrel, I decide to tell him the truth.  "I have no spare cash to give you".  Our trip is already testing available resources.  "I take euros, rand, anything" he tells me.  This beggar runs an international outfit.  Would he take Mastercard?  I speed up.  He speeds up.  I slow down. He slows down. A limpet could not have been more tenacious.  And all the time he is explaining to me why I should give him money.  He favours euros.  He wants me to give him euros.  Are they strong this week?  He must know something I don’t, or, maybe he really is just mad? We reach the mall entrance.  The guard gives him a knowing look and he disappears into the crowd.

We go to visit Kentucky Fried Chicken to kill time.  We were nearly drawn into King Pie, which has many establishments, but Colonel Sanders wins the day.  We could have gone to Hungry Lion, the African equivalent of Macdonald’s, but we would have had to cross the main road and we now have our bags back.  Sadly, it is too much effort.

We take a window seat and after spending 10 minutes moaning about the paucity of the portions, we sit and watch the behaviour of the street beggars outside.  They merge with the passing crowd and at first glance you may not know they are there.  They have targeted the entrance to KFC and are hunting as a co-operative group.  The first boy accosts a young man leaving with a take-away.  It may be fast food, but this young man is not fast enough.  He momentarily hesitates and the young beggar senses a kill.  He follows the young man down the street digging deeply into his not inconsiderable resources of persuasion.  They are followed at a distance by a straggler who, unsuccessful at making first kills himself, hopes to benefit from anything that is left over.

This leaves the way open to beggar number two who has already been summarily brushed off by his first mark and is stalking another.  The attack fails.  The woman does not even acknowledge the predator’s presence as she marches smartly away.  This is how we will leave, though our bags will slow us down.  In the meantime, we are safe inside  since there is a security guard at the entrance who, though half asleep and looking thoroughly bored, by his very presence is keeping the beggars out.  It is time for us to go.  We hitch up our bags and gird up our loins.  I give my wing support a brief briefing. We know the enemy is outside, camouflaged and waiting for us.  With courage and determination we shall withstand all assaults and win through to a glorious day of victory and liberty.  We shall not tire nor be deflected from our purpose.  A bus is waiting for us and we shall not let it down.  With a steadfast smile of encouragement we open the door and wing our way into ambush alley.  In an instant we are facing a direct onslaught.  "Give me some money" comes the opening salvo.  I veer to one side and the words go over my head.  I open up the throttle but chummy is light and manoeuvrable.  His is a newer model and unencumbered by baggage.  He slips from my right flank to my left releasing one volley after another as he pursues me down the street.  His aim is good but he incurs no serious damage.  We maintain speed and height and surge on regardless.  He sees his attack is failing and breaks off.  I reduce speed  for Georgina and we reestablish group formation.  "Give me a dollar,"  A goon emerges from my blind spot out of the sun.  I did not see him coming.  Only evasive manoeuvres can help us now.  I dive behind a telegraph pole and skim a line of parked cars.  Chummy falls back to avoid collision but clings to my tail strafing me mercilessly.  I try to pick up speed but my engine splutters and threatens to stall.  I am about to enter a free-fall dive.  I can see the ground racing up towards me.  But no, my plugs spark back to life and I shoot forward.  My pursuer has no heart for the struggle and backs off.  I see a new wave of goons crossing the road to my right but they have another target in their sights.  We are free and our victory is in our grasp.

We are the first ones on the bus and get the front seat.  The engine is off and the upper deck is rapidly turning into a sauna.  Passengers are congregating outside and I see the madman who had accosted me earlier outside the mall.  He is carefully selecting his marks, young, female and friendly. He must have changed his tactics as I was none of these.  His fictional bus would have gone 2 hours previously.

I peruse the people chatting in the car park.  There is a lady in a green dress with 2 blue parrots standing one on each shoulder.  They are so still they must be stuffed.  No, they move their heads. They seem happy on their perches and make no attempt to escape.  There are no shrieks of "Pieces of Eight", but surely, this must be Mrs Long John Silver.  Admittedly, she does have 2 legs, but, there again, she does have 2 parrots. 

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.

We thought we’d send our Christmas letter early this year just to make sure you received one in time. The days and weeks are flying by and it will be December 25th before you know it. In the 1950’s & 60’s the days/weeks/years lasted twice as long. Now they are gone in a flash. What shall we blame, the EU, global warming or the ravages of old age?

The last, no doubt. Well, before we became too old, Georgina and I thought we’d do some “VSO” (Voluntary Service Overseas). It’s either that or sinking into premature retirement, flopping into an armchair, watching day-time TV and dribbling down your front. Well, come to think of it…….. No, we’ve decided to go to Namibia for two years. You know it, that desert country comprising one big sand dune to the north left of South Africa. Britain is getting too crowded. We’re giving our space up to give you a bit more room and we’re going to the world’s second most sparsely country after Mongolia.

The capital of Namibia is Windhoek (pronounced Windhoek). We shall be in Rundu on the northern border with Angola. The country is free from malaria apart from one area which happens to be on the northern border with Angola. VSO finds it difficult to place 2 volunteers together, so the usual thing is for one person to be placed and their accompanying partner to find something when they get there. Georgina will be “Co-ordinator for Inclusive Education” dealing mainly with sensory impairments. Accommodation is provided but we shall be sharing a house with other volunteers. I suppose taking up the bagpipes might be a good idea at this time.

We are letting out house in Theydon Bois so are trying to use this as a good excuse for clearing out thirty-six years of accumulated clutter. If all goes well we will moving out at the end of August.

Georgina says,

VSO is an international development charity that uses the skills of professional people to tackle poverty in 40 of the world’s poorest countries. It is currently supporting 1,700 volunteers. I am trying to raise money for VSO by doing a sponsored head shave. It would be great if you could sponsor me by sending a donation or looking at www.justgiving.com/georginahayes. Hoping to keep in touch with you all by email (georgina_hayes@hotmail.com) or you can follow our progress at www.hayestacks.co.uk or on Facebook.

Please donate now.
Oh, and by the way, Happy Christmas.

Love from Georgina and Nigel. xx

I bet you’ve never seen Sir Nigel D, Momma G, Sal, and Han Han shake their groove-thangs like this before!

http://www.elfyourself.com/?id=9553446510