Hayestack

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.

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.

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. 

Our journey to Kisora took us on a short safari through the Queen Elizabeth National Park.We could see elephants in the distance and many water bucks, kobs, water buffalo, hippos and gibbons. But we were disappointed not to see zebras and giraffes in particular.  We were told the recent rain had sent many animals deeper into the bush (where they kept their umbrellas, no doubt).  However, a driver stopped to tell us where we could see lions eating a water buffalo.   Moses’ eyes lit up at this and he became very excited.  He really wanted to see a lion eating a buffalo and we shot off at great speed.   We reached the place before the lions had finished their breakfast.  One female ate while the others stood guard.  We warily climbed out of the car to get a better view.  Suddenly, a lion’s head popped up from the grass uncomfortably close by.  Moses reached for the thin twig he had picked to ward off attacking lions.  I didn’t fancy his chances with this, though he did use it later on, very effectively, to shoo off little boys who were coming too close to the car to beg.

The road from Kabale to Kisora was appalling.  The word “road” is a ludicrous exaggeration for that dirt track with ruts in it the size of the Grand Canyon.  Huge articulated lorries carrying petrol thundered along sending up clouds of dust and thick, blue diesel fumes while we picked our way between the crevasses,  fearful that the back axle was about to drop off.   Moses stopped to examine the back of the car.  “What’s up?” we asked.  “There’s a strange noise.”  There was a strange noise. He jumped back in the car and resumed the switchback ride strangely unconcerned.  We, however, were haunted by that noise all the way to Kisoro and back knowing that the nearest RAC man was at least 4,000 miles away.    The noise mysteriously disappeared when we hit tarmac again.  But sometimes, when dusk falls and the night is still, I can hear that strange noise taunting me from afar.

It had taken 2 hours to travel 50 miles and our internal organs were playing musical chairs.  My knuckles hadn’t been so white since a ride on Disney’s Space Mountain, where the drops weren’t so sheer and I had never thought I might actually die.

The fading light didn’t improve the feeling of gloom and depression that hung in the air over Kisoro.   The poverty seemed no worse than anywhere else, the rubbish tips were just the same, the shops just as drab.  Huge chunks of meat for sale hung outside the butchers’ shops to collect dust and flies just as anywhere else in Uganda.  It was probably the sight of these that gave us our first and enduring bout of diarrhoea.  I apologise for this subject.  It’s a bit like vomit.  I didn’t want to bring it up.  We were very particular about hygiene and washed our hands every time we saw a toilet.  We had bottles of ant-bacterial gel and were careful what we ate. We certainly didn’t eat the gel.  Sometimes we were caught unawares, such as by  the shredded goat meat on the avocado that was hidden under a dollop of 1000 island dressing ( They had, obviously, forgotten to remove  a cess pit from one of the islands before they made the dressing).    I suspect the currency is a great transmitter of disease.   The bacteria on some of the filthy brown notes was probably the only thing holding them together.

The television in the hotel room that night had only 1 channel.  Previously we had had 3,  namely 2 football channels and an African soap much like Neighbours only much slower and worse acting.  Boy was it bad?   I mentioned this lack of choice ( i.e. football or off) to the porter who said he could change the channel from reception.  Which did I want BBC or CNN?   Either would be fine.  A few minutes later the screen flickered and the channel changed to rugby football.  I gave up, exercised choice and switched off.

The Ugandans are crazy about football, especially the English Premier League.  They wear the strips and know who all the footballers are, like er, (who do I know?) Oh, yes, David Beckham.  Slogans painted on their vehicles such as “Jesus lives” and “God is Great” rub shoulders with “Arsenal” and Man. Utd”.  (see Gallery)

There is one good thing about Kisoro.  It’s near the Rwandan border where petrol is a lot cheaper.  Uganda has abolished Road Fund Duty and placed it on petrol.  Our hotel wasn’t in a good location, though, being next to a disco that raved until the early hours.  This was complemented a bit later by the Muslim call to prayer.  All that was missing was a cock crowing.  No, I spoke too soon.  There it goes….. cock-a-doodle-do.  What joy.

“Jesus is the means by which one enters heaven. We are not free to craft our own way into heaven mainly because heaven is God’s not ours. Similarly, the earth is his and everything in it (Psalm 24:1). Therefore, God sets the rules. Am I pleased with the concept of Hell where sinners are punished for eternity? No, it’s a frightening thought; but I find great comfort in the fact that God has provided a way whereby sinners like myself can escape Hell and enter into eternal communion with him. What a great God that rescues sinners!”

Read more at http://www.katadrew.com