Hayestack

We rushed through Raleigh/Durham Airport and descended the escalator.  At the bottom, Emily stood rocking a bundle in her arms. A tiny face appeared in the bundle and we had our first glimpse of Poppy, our first grandchild. With her mop of dark hair and pretty little face she looked the most adorable baby ever. It was love at first sight.

“Drew told me to use the GPS to get home as I always get lost,” said Emily as we shot down the highway missing our exit. The coloured line on the satellite navigation display doubled back on itself. Emily looked annoyed. “Don’t worry, I’ll sort it out,” I said, ” Keep straight on,”  We shot past another missed exit as I peered at the screen. The Satnav was talking to me. A disembodied female voice, indistinct, but, I fancy, slightly tetchy seemed to be saying, “Idiot, you missed another exit.”

At last, we swept into Juniper Avenue and came to a halt outside Drew and Emily’s house, an imposing building bordered by a church, a cemetery and funeral home. “Be careful as you get out,” advised Emily, torrential rain swept half the drive away yesterday.” We opened the front door and we walked into Christmas. The tree and lights were stunning.

We had arrived in time for graduations, Emily for completing her Nursing Qualification and Drew for his Master of Divinity. We had arrived in time to attend both.  In the meantime, there was Poppy.

She smiles at the drop of a hat and really seems pleased to see you. She has the prettiest face topped by a thick mass of dark hair. Complete strangers would stop us in the street to admire her. One elderly woman accosted Poppy and I in a mop-cap shop in Williamsburg. After cooing over Poppy for some time she began to tell me about her grandchild. She took my polite nodding as genuine interest and began recounting the life story of her grandchild.  I seemed to have joined the Grandparents’ Club.  I only wish I could have been as interested in her grandchild as she was in Poppy.

The phrase,”I’m going to climb into bed” was literally true for our bed at Emily and Drew’s. Any higher and Georgina and I would have needed a grappling hook and crampons and oxygen for the altitude. Fortunately, neither of us suffered from vertigo. It had been made by a friend’s father who had assembled it using the wrong sizes screws, a thing we found out when I tried to move it flush to the wall.  The earth would have certainly moved for us had we been in it at the time.

We had come from an African summer of 37 degrees Celsius to a North Carolinian 7. I, for one had forgotten what it was like to feel cold. In the event, I took the precaution of counting my fingers and toes every morning to make sure i had not lost any to frostbite in the night. Georgina was less concerned. Her body naturally runs at a temperature at least 5 degrees higher than ordinary mortals. To say she is “hot stuff” is literally true. I could fry egg and bacon on her back in the night and have breakfast already in bed in the morning.

Drew and Emily’s house was quiet and relaxed, as one would expect when bordered by church, cemetery and funeral. But it has bags of character. We saw little activity from the neighbours. The business at the funeral Home seemed particularly dead.   Everyday, sometimes twice a day, I enjoyed the mournful hooting of a train in the distance, a hauntingly romantic and evocative sound as only an American train can be. The low rumbling of the wheels would reach a crescendo then gradually disappear.  Georgina and I would rush to the bedroom window to see the locomotive pulling a long line of freight wagons as it passed by the end of the road. Occasionally, if you were lucky, there would be two locomotives pulling the wagons, a “double-header”, as rare as an egg with a double yolk. But, even greater fun could be had in the bedroom – Drew’s super broad and super fast wi-fi internet connection.  Back in Rundu we have a dongle which is so expensive to run you need permission from your bank manager to switch it on.

We did venture out of the bedroom occasionally. Most days we took Poppy out in her stroller. We braved the arctic chill to visit the local library, the post-office, the emporia and the  Olde English Tea Shoppe where Poppy’s parents worked. The Union Flag at the entrance welcomed us.  The interior was snug and homely. You might have been in a maiden aunt’s quaintly decorated parlour, one who collects bone-china teasets and decorates the walls with them. It was a charming place in which to partake a cup or two of Earl Grey. Judy, the proprietor and an obvious anglophile, was delightful and effusive. She greeted us like long lost friends, a skill for which Americans have a particular knack.

When I feel the touch of your hand upon my life,

It causes me to sing this song that I love you Lord.

So from deep within my spirit singeth unto you

You are my King, you are my God & I love you Lord.

I had a ‘lucky’ escape on Friday when I was run over by a red car. It was miraculous that I came away with just a big bruise, where the handlebars dug into my leg when the bike and I were squashed together under the front of the car, and 1 sore front tooth.

My leg felt very stiff and uncomfortable yesterday so we could not join in the sponsored walk for Haiti. Today it feels much better and I managed to ride my bike to the shops and back, even though my leg felt like a heavy weight at the start of each journey.

The readings at church today seemed just for me. The 1^st reading was from

Psalm 56 v 11-13

‘In God I trust; I will not be afraid

What can man do to me?

………………………….

I will present my thank offerings to you

For you have delivered me from death

And my feet from stumbling

That I may walk before God

In the light of life.

The 2^nd reading was from Colossians 3 v 12-14

‘Bear with each other and forgive whatever grievances you may have against one another. Forgive as the Lord forgave you. And over all these virtues put on love, which binds them all together in perfect unity’.

Needless to say I put some dollars in the usual collection and also some in the special basket for Haiti! And I don’t hold a grudge against Mr Kamwanga and his small red car.

Georgina  7th Feb 2010

The ELCIN Church in Namibia is crazy. Take the other week, only the most important Sunday in the Christian year, viz. Easter Day, Nico and Margreeth, our Dutch friends, were away on holiday, so the congregation had to sing the hymns without the support of an organ. This would not normally daunt them. It usually makes them sing louder if the hymns are good and they have a fair wind behind them.

However, somebody had the bright idea of setting up the organ in “demonstration” mode to entertain the congregation before the start of the service. It is one of those small “Casio” keyboard things that you might give to a child for Christmas. But in the Rundu church with its weird acoustics it can sound vaguely, and I emphasise vaguely, like the organ in the Royal Albert Hall.

Anyway, the “demonstration “programs on these keyboard jobs are designed to cover all seasons and anniversaries so that the proud owner can pretend he can play the thing without the drudgery of practice. We sat in the front of the church staring at the lone keyboard playing such sober and edifying tunes as “Greensleeves” at a very subdued though clearly audible volume. Though Nico’s organ chair was empty, we could almost feel his ghostly presence. Our sombre meditations on the death and resurrection of our Lord were rudely interrupted by the exuberant strains of “Happy Birthday” coming from the mischievous organ. I couldn’t believe it. To laugh or the cry, that was the question. The surreal tone was set. The pastor will turn it off when he comes in. He didn’t. He walked straight past, oblivious to the sound. Easter hymns and prayers were performed to the strains of Christmas Carols in the background. The creed was recited to the accompaniment of “Jingle Bells”, the gospel to “Oh, Suzannah”. You may find this hard to believe. I did, at the time. I pinched myself to make sure I wasn’t dreaming. Was that a Sousa march? My foot was tapping. Does God have a surreal sense of humour or was the devil playing tricks on us? I was certainly distracted and inclined to sing alone to the catchy tunes in the background. Nobody, not even the guy who had switched it on, stood up to turn it off. Maybe, and understandably, he did not wish to identify himself? Maybe everyone was enjoying the anarchy as much as I?

Eventually, towards the end of the service the pastor suddenly and without a word turned the organ off and spoilt our fun. Soon Nico will be back and we will have to sing properly again. Still, I’m looking forward to singing Easter hymns at Christmas.

                                          Table Mountain

If I had to live anywhere in South Africa, I’m pretty sure I would choose Cape Town. It is smart, cosmopolitan, friendly and small enough to be able to walk anywhere. We certainly feel more secure and comfortable here than in any other part of South Africa. The main centre lies between the newly developed harbour and the impressive and imposing Table Mountain.

Our first experience of Cape Town is not auspicious. A taxi man, touting for business picks, up our rucksack as soon as our minibus stops and leads us through the crowd, supposedly towards a taxi that will take us to our hostel. He is accosted by another taxi driver who wants our business. An argument ensues with the new, younger driver winning by throwing our rucksack into the back of his car. We ask the cost of the journey but he is reluctant to give a price. “Don’t worry, I’ll give you a good deal,” he says. That’s what we fear. We insist on a price and eventually he quotes £14 to take us half a mile up the road. With a polite “No thank you,” we grab our rucksack and walk speedily away. The original taxi man is still following us holding out his hand. We give him a couple of dollars for carrying our bag. He holds out for more. “No, that’s enough,” we say, but this guy is not easy to shake off. He eventually gets the message that we mean what we say and falls back into the crowd.

One of the good things about Cape Town is that everywhere is within walking distance. Our backpackers hostel is just under Table Mountain and is a good one. The “Ashanti” is one of the few backpackers in Cape Town that takes tents. We simply have to stay there as there is nowhere else. The man behind reception is flexible. “If you can fit your tent in you can stay.” At first sight there is no room. It is a small area anyway and a large, sprawling tent takes up half the space. The guy ropes of another tent stretches out unnecessarily wide. With a bit of imagination we could pitch at an angle, encroach upon the path and block the French window to the female dorm. An intruder would have to climb over us to gain entry. “Did you find enough space?” asks the receptionist. “Masses,” I reply. We had arrived.

Cape Town is an enclave of civilisation and glamour. The newly developed harbour has an attractive collection of shops, restaurants, entertainment areas.

Large, expensive yachts line the marina while people sit at waterside cafes sipping coffee and soaking in the atmosphere. And all the time Table Mountain stands proudly as an ever present backdrop, shielding you from the poverty and distress of the rest of Africa.

The Hillsong Church meets every Sunday in the new, international conference centre nearby. Following Simon’s (our son) recommendation we pay them a visit and watch a very entertaining nativity tableau produced with Hillsong’s usual style and opulence.

I am back in childhood when Santa, descending from the back of the hall, shakes my hand thrusting into it a candy lollipop. Equally memorable are the unusual, modern washbasins in the rest rooms, comprising a jet of water falling onto a flat, inclined slab of marble. Strange the things that impress us.

We struggle up the steep hill behind our hostel to the base station of the cable car that will take us to the top of Table Mountain.

We contemplate the steep angle of the cable and wonder how the car can make it vertically up the last few hundred feet. We buy a single ticket as we are going to risk taking the footpath down. We have put on an extra layer of clothes as it is much colder at the top. We are mad. One extra layer is totally inadequate. It is like the north pole at the summit and everyone is turning blue and shivering uncontrollably. A few people wearing fleeces smile smugly as we develop goose bumps bigger than geese.

There is a small shop on the summit selling fleeces and woolly jumpers. They are doing a brisk trade. The view is spectacular, especially when the clouds part. We can see Nelson Mandela’s Robben Island just off the coast. We ask at the Information desk about the footpath down. The girl claims she knows nothing about it. Are we sure there is one? She wants to sell us tickets down in the cable car. We want to walk. We will ask the guides. These are three pensioners who give guided tours of the plateau in their spare time. They are well wrapped up in anoraks, sturdy boots and carry walking sticks. They look incredulous when we mention the path. We have no warm clothes, no water, we are wearing sandals and have no stick. We are utterly crazy, they suggest politely. It is a steep and very dangerous path. We are about to commit suicide. The rest of the group smile sympathetically. We are innocents; we are foreigners and English to boot. I feel that the guides mistakenly think I have suggested climbing Everest in my shirt sleeves. They peer at us closely. Are we experienced walkers? I am indignant. We’ve walked everywhere, up mountains, down mountains, through mountains, over mountains. I list all the mountains I have ever heard of and several I haven’t. We’ve walked around the world twice and are planning to walk to the moon. We are obviously seasoned walkers. The guides relent. They will show us the start of the path but will take no responsibility for the tragedy that will inevitably befall us. “I will read about it in the newspapers tomorrow morning,” says one of the guides with an annoying smirk.

They show us the path as if it were the Holy Grail and wave us on our way. The path is steep and stony but in no way is it an exceptionally lunatic way of getting down the mountain. There is a steady stream of walkers going in both directions. It is a very enjoyable and sensible way to descend. Moreover, we have saved a small fortune on the price of a ticket.

Halfway down the path we hear a scream and see a young girl doing cartwheels through the undergrowth. She stops with a bump and lies still. Her two young friends sit on the path crying hysterically. They think she is dead. Three young, energetic young men come trotting down the path. One happens to be a doctor. They just happened to be passing. The girl is not dead. She is not really injured at all, apart from a sore ankle. She had slipped off the path and tumbled down the mountain. She was still unsteady on her feet so we agree to help her to the bottom. She is fifteen and in a school party. The teacher has gone on without them. As we reach the bottom of the mountain our leg muscles begin to seize up. It is agony. We barely make it back to the hostel and it takes three days for our legs to return to normal.

We walk through the sunlit Company Gardens to Cape Town Cathedral situated at the end. The gardens were laid out centuries before to supply the many ships sailing around the tip of Africa. Now they are just a beautiful place to stroll on your way to the centre. It is Christmas Eve and we are on our way to the Festival of Nine Lessons and Carols at the cathedral. We are walking with David, a backpacker about our age from New Zealand who has tagged along. He had owned his own vineyard down under and has come to experience South African viticulture. He thinks the wines here are wonderful. Even the cheap ones are very drinkable and superior to the “plonk” you get back home. He has put a bottle of “fizz” in the fridge for us to celebrate Christmas after the service. The cathedral is quiet outside and we speculate whether we will be the only ones in the congregation. The cathedral is, in fact, full and many faces are black. This must be one of the high-lights of a Cape Town Christmas and it amuses me to think that, here in Africa, we have found people enjoying one of the most quintessential of English Christmas services. We notice that Archbishop Desmond Tutu is preaching at the Midnight Service, but this time he will have to do it without us. Even the hard ground of the tent seems attractive when you are exhausted.

Our ride to Stellenbosch is in the largest and most comfortable bus yet. The road takes away from the coast into the hills and vineyards of one of South Africa’s most renowned grape growing regions. We pass the Klingklop brandy distillery and the Robertson Winery, names we have become strangely familiar with after such a short stay.

Our driver is as good as his door to door word and having driven around lost for a while and with the help of our guide book, eventually drops us off at out backpackers hostel. This backpackers is friendly, relaxed and has a good sized garden for tents. It also has backpackers who like to talk loudly way beyond midnight and we hope our early morning noisy movements wake them up prematurely and leave them feeling tires and bleary eyed for the rest of the day.

It is just a few days before Christmas and the lights are being officially switched on. The manager gives us directions. “The quickest way is here,” he points to a map. “But if you feel unsafe come back this way as there is more traffic.” Stellenbosch is the second oldest European settlement and the colonial architecture is splendid. The town square, nestling between 2 churches, is large, bordered by trees and decidedly French in feel. The many strings of lights are hung ready between the trees, and a metal tree covered with lights stands at the centre of the park.

Crowds have begun to gather and sit on the grass listening to a loud band on a lorry stage at one end. As the sun slips down behind the trees, the band mercifully stops, giving way to the usual, interminable speeches from local bigwigs. After only a short while the amplified speeches are competing with a hum of background voices. I look around. Everyone is talking to his neighbour. No-one, apart from Georgina and myself is listening to the longwinded speeches. Nevertheless, they drone on incessantly. Complete darkness comes with a growing sense of anticipation. Soon the speeches must finish. Someone flicks a switch and the square is illuminated by thousands of coloured lights. The effect is amazing and for the first time we feel a little bit Christmassy. Sirens wail and the blue, flashing lights of several fire engines appear down the street. The power surge has set something alight already? A white bearded man in a red suit and hat is waving from the first vehicle. Surely, this is our cue to depart? We slip away as the procession circles the square and heads for the central tree. Maybe they are going to string up Santa Claus?

We are just a stone’s throw from Cape Town. Forget the minibus taxis. We could go by train from here. “Travel in daylight and make sure there are others in your compartment,” we are advised. From what we have heard, on-lookers merely provide an audience for an attack. You would be very lucky if anyone intervened to prevent one to even to staunch the flow of blood pumping from your wound. The station on the edge of town is old and dilapidated. A few people hang around following you with their eyes. There is no timetable and no indication when or if, trains ever run through here. I suppose the African way is to turn up and wait for the next train whenever that may be, hours, days or weeks. The people are predominantly elderly. They have probably been waiting years. No-one knows when the trains run. In the end someone hazards a guess that it might be at lunchtime the following day. We decide to take a minibus taxi.

Loaded with all our stuff we head out the next day. “The taxis are just up this road,” says a helpful, but less than convincing, passer-by. We trudge on. Two miles later, we ask someone else. “It’s just up there.” “Just,” in this case can be translated as 10 miles. We see a rusting chunk of metal on a piece of waste ground. This is our taxi that will take us to the outskirts of Cape Town. Feeling as though we have already walked there, we squeeze into the minibus taking the last of the seats and sit around roasting in the sun for at least six more people to arrive. There is always room for just one more. This is the bus where the driver takes six attempts to shut the sliding door and it is the worst taxi so far. We don’t mind, we are on the last leg of the journey to Cape Town, the end of the line. As the driver crunches the gears and the minibus wheels begin to turn we begin to pray.

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.

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. 

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?

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.

The end of our visit was in sight. But before we went we just had to make one more visit.   This was to the Watoto Project situated just outside Kampala.  Though Sally had tried to contact the organisers by phone she had been unsuccessful, so they were not prepared for our visit.  In spite of this Dave agreed at the last minute to escort us.  He could not have been more friendly or more helpful and didn’t seem the slightest bit annoyed that we had dragged him away from his usual work.

When we drove off the main road the dirt track ahead was blocked by motorcycles and a group of men making a show of digging up the road.  One of them approached holding out a basket, and, when we had made a donation, were allowed to pass.  These budding entrepreneurs had created their own unofficial toll road.  There is no limit to the ingenuity and creativity of ambitious Ugandans.  As long as the country doesn’t sink again into the abyss of tribal conflict the ability to adapt and improvise will assure their future.

The Watoto Project was very different from the others we had seen.  Famous for its children’s’ choir, its mission is ostensibly to create future leaders for Uganda from the ready supply of available orphans.  The buildings are well made and spaciously separated on a large campus.  These villages each with its own school, church and medical centre are elite and thriving.  There are several around the country with a new one being built in the north at Gulu at the moment.  They are further rays of hope for Uganda’s future.

We now turned south towards Entebbe.  On the way to the airport we stopped at the botanical gardens and sat dipping our fingers into the cool waters of Lake Victoria as we watched egrets and pied kingfishers fly around us.  Moses had seemed despondent all morning.  Was he sad that we were leaving or sad that a lucrative job was coming to an end?  We hoped it was the former.  Moses contribution had been vital to the success of our visit.  He had always been cheerful, helpful and informative.  He drove us places that we otherwise would not have visited and smoothed our way with the locals.  We greatly appreciated all he did for us and would certainly recommend him to others.

As we sat on the plane wiping the dust of Uganda from our hands and faces with the hot towels provided, it was not so easy to remove the experiences we’d had of the country and people from our hearts and minds.  We would be cherishing them for a long time to come.