Hayestack

Sally suddenly burst through the Arrival doors at Windhoek Airport and we through our arms around her. It was great to be with one of our children again and reminded us how much we had missed them after eleven months away. We picked up the hire car and set off for the City. Windhoek is much the same as a European city. It is not large and you can see the main sights in a few hours. We saw the Christus Kirche, the equestrian statue, the fort, the meteorites, the shopping mall and set off for Rundu

The small, black Daihatsu Sirion was smart and fun to drive. Like Dr Who’s Tardis the interior was surprisingly huge. But the build was cheap and plasticky. The interior trim felt as though you could easily put your finger through it, but, on the road up to Rundu, the car felt nippy and reliable compared to Linda’s Pajero, a lumbering monster which growled and groaned and spent most of its life in a repair shop, retaining few of its original parts. We stopped once for fuel at Otjiwarona and I was impressed by the small car’s fuel consumption, perhaps too impressed, since, with this full tank I judged we had enough fuel to reach Rundu. In the end it was touch and go. The Daihatsu Sirion was a fast little car and the faster we went, the faster it drank fuel. Though we were still 60 kilometres outside Rundu and it was pitch dark, the fuel indicator had sunk well below empty and we were travelling on petrol fumes. At last we passed the Rundu boundary sign and, with the help of gravity, we rolled to a stop at the Engen Service Station.

We spent those first few days chilling out in Rundu, giving Sally the opportunity to meet our new friends and to visit Georgina’s school.

  Sheena, Georgina, me, the wall and the rockery.

The sudden and unexpected nature of the encounter made it quite shocking. It happened like this. We had had a wonderful night at the luxurious lodge at Ghaub saying goodbye to Addy and Barbara who were returning to the north of England after a three and three quarter stint with VSO at Katima.

“Have you seen the meteorite?” asked our good friend Sheena, a lively 66 year old from Scotland who had come to Namibia shortly after us. She was driving us back to Rundu in her bakkie and was having trouble locating the main road. The more we drove, the more familiar the roads became so that we began to think we were in a vortex loop like the Bermuda triangle from which we would never escape. If you can read this, then we have escaped. If we have not, we are still there and you should come looking. Let me know if you can’t read it.

“No, we have not seen the meteorite,” we replied. Let’s go and see it. It is the largest known meteorite in the world and is 800,000 years old, at least. We parked the car and wended our way to reception. Opposite the rockery is a suntrap wall perfect, with hindsight, for basking snakes and other reptiles. We walked in a line towards this wall, Linda, myself, Sheena and Georgina. As Linda was passing the wall I saw a movement out of the corner of my eye. I looked down and saw a snake wriggling in the short space between Linda and me in an agitated state. One more step and I would have blocked the snake’s escape into the rockery, a most unfortunate occurrence. The word “snake” involuntarily escaped from my throat and I instinctively took a step backwards. Fortunately, Sheena moved in the same direction and Georgina shot off behind the wall. The snake, which seemed just as anxious to get away from us as we from it slid in front of me into the rockery. Between 1-2 metres in length it was brown and closely resembled the black mamba we had seen dead on the road some weeks previously. Not wishing to believe that I came so close to the deadly fangs of such a poisonous snake I am happy to believe it was a less harmful mole snake, though this is shown as being more orange in one book. The lack of obvious moles is inconclusive since the snake may just have eaten them all.

The meteorite looked like a big chunk of metal with silver streaks where people had scraped slithers off. It comprised iron, nickel, cobalt and other metals. It seemed strange that this large object was once flying along in outer space. It was not far beyond the bounds of reason to imagine this to be an alien spaceship and I was half expecting a hatch to open and strange creatures to emerge. I have been standing in the sun a lot recently.

John and friend

Yes, I don’t know what it means either. There is a new law that says everyone has to pay to register their land that they have lived on for generations. It is not just the cost of administration but constitutes a substantial tax on the poor. A Community Volunteers Day was organised to advertise the benefits of Formalisation. I would not have touched it with a barge pole (if I had one) had not John, our gardener, been involved in the drama competition. Bruce, Linda’s partner, and I were at the market by nine in the morning, the appointed time for this entertainment. We expected a few minutes of street theatre where a few actors improvised while a crowd stood around cheering. Instead, we found the market set out like a huge theatre with a large stage and many chairs. They were expecting a very large audience. We were shown to the front and had VIP rosettes pinned to our shirts. We felt like prize exhibits in a cattle show. We sat and waited…and waited…and waited. Nothing was happening. I went off to do my shopping. They were singing the Namibian National Anthem when I returned. It was refreshing to see how seriously they took this. Even those on the periphery who could have got away with chatting amongst themselves stood solemnly. The government feels it important that the many tribes should be united as one Namibia. They have chosen English as their official language as English, one Namibian politician told us, “is the language of liberation, of freedom”. “The different tribal regions will be able to talk together and Namibia will be one nation.” We hope that his instincts are right. At the moment, most Namibians speak to each other in their own language, though all business, commerce, media and education is in English. Most schools are failing partly because the learners do not have a good command of English. Also, the education system is generally mismanaged by incompetents and the corrupt. Otherwise, they are doing fine.

After the anthem came the introduction of guests. The market hall was large and the public address system inadequate. They spoke in English with a Rukwangali translation. We heard the same speeches twice, but didn’t understand them once. It didn’t matter as, with a booming sound system, it all sounded like one big blur. We could make out about one word in ten. The honoured guests stood up and waved to the audience. I thought I heard the Master of Ceremonies say the letters “VSO”. He was staring at us. Bruce had casually mentioned to the lady who seated us that we were vaguely connected with VSO. Suddenly, we were their official representatives and honoured guests. We stood up and gave the audience a wave. The Mayor gave a speech, the chief Technical Adviser gave a speech, the Chief Liaison Officer gave a speech. Each time, somewhere along the line the letters “VSO” were mentioned and we smiled sweetly and appropriately.

frangipani (should have been in the last post).

We had been there since 9am and there was still no sign of the drama.

“I’m going at 11.30 if the drama hasn’t begun,” I said to Bruce, who particularly wanted to see the plays as he does some directing back home. I was bored out of my mind.

The time for the drama came and went. The lady speaker, who didn’t need a public address system, started giving out certificates, which shouldn’t have happened until after the drama. They had changed the order of the programme. We had sat around all morning for nothing. That was enough for me, and for Bruce. We exited stage right, pursued not by a bear but by gardener John who was a bit disappointed that we were not prepared to waste the rest of our lives waiting for a non-existent play. In fact, the 9am dramas did not start until 1pm. No-one was surprised except us. Delay is the African way. We should have known better. Unfortunately, John’s drama team, though highly comic, did not win, but it was a great day for Formalisation and I didn’t waste the rest of my life.

Popa Falls is a rapid on the Kavango River just outside the Mahango Game Park. On our way there we stopped at a supermarket to buy cold drinks. Small and dingy, it was anything but “super”. But it did have cold drinks. Men and boys propped themselves against the walls as though the walls were in imminent danger of falling down. Swigging periodically from bottles of Windhoek lager and tins of cola they stared at us as if trying to work out from which planet we had just arrived.

A bedraggled youth of about 15 years sidled up to me. His body odour had arrived a good minute before him. I suspected that his torn, stained and holey brown tee-shirt had started out in life as a white one. In one hand he held a long stick to one end of which he had attached bottle tops in the form of two wheels which he pushed around in front of him.

“Gimme a dollar,” he said without moving his lips. The words were nearly totally incoherent but this was the beggar child’s usual demand. His eyes were glazed and watery, his face puffy. His repeated demand was turning into a mantra. Evidently, his tactic was to wear his victim down with a combined assault on nose and ear so that the victim would give a coin just to get rid of him. And before you think me the most callous person who ever breathed, you must understand that these “professional” beggars can earn anything up to 80 Namibian dollars a day and have to give most of it to the older boys in the gang. Our hard-working cleaner earns 50 Namibian dollars and has to support a family.

John knew the best way to Popa Falls. “There’s a track at the end of this garden.” We looked but saw no garden. “There!” he said, pointing to a field half the size of England. “Oh, that garden,” Linda said.

It turned out that we had managed to evade the enterprising woman who had appointed herself entrance fee collector to the Falls.

“That woman robs people” said John. She had been a former class mate of his and he knew her tricks. We were pleased not to have been robbed that day.

At Popa Falls, John and his family stripped to their pants and braved the foaming water. It looked cool and refreshing, but, for me, totally resistible.

Of course, they had no towel, so, with jeans over wet pants they paraded back to the car like cowboys who had been in the saddle for 2 months without a break. Laugh? I could have wet myself.

So you’re on your way to Tesco, you turn the corner and there’s an elephant in the road, staring straight at you, wondering if it wants to charge you. You would have a fright, right? Well, we were sort of expecting it as we were in elephant country, Mahango Game Park, to be precise. Not that I want to play down the danger of our predicament and the courage and fortitude we displayed in facing up to it. The elephant, after all was wild (well, a little cross, at least). He was a handsome young male (and he knew it) who had spent the morning polishing his tusks, grooming his hair and was now nonchalantly walking down the strip looking for some smart chick to pick up. He chewed on the branch of a tree trying to look cool.

“Hey you,” he said (he was a talking elephant). “Wotcha doin’ here? This is my spot for pickin’ up chicks.”

“OK, man, we’re not going to cramp your style.”

We edged the car forward.

He stared at us for a bit wondering if he should give us a bit of action. No doubt he had a flick knife hidden about his person.

“Don’t go any nearer,” warned John, our Namibian gardener and whose ancestors had been mighty warriors.

“These animals are dangerous. They could flick this car over easily.”

Maybe his forebears had had trouble with elephants flicking over cars?

“Don’t be such a wimp, John, “ said Linda, (or words to that effect). “We’re miles away.” Nevertheless, all our senses were on full alert looking for the slightest sign that this cool dude was beginning to heat up. He flapped his magnificent ears and lifted one leg. Was this the first sign of a charge or was he waving goodbye? Apparently it was the latter because he turned and sloped off into the undergrowth without even a high five.

Linda, Georgina and I had driven the 2 hours to Mahango with John, his brother, Andreas and 3 children from their extended family. Although they were native Namibians they had little experience of the local wildlife. As we drove through the park there seemed to be elephant droppings everywhere. This was evidently an elephant toilet.

On first arriving at the park, the childrens’ entertainer in Linda had come out.

“What animal will we see first? A prize for whoever gets it right.”

“A lion,” said one. “Elephant,” said another. “Giraffe, buffalo.”

I plumped for “kangaroo” as the others seemed a little obvious. They, unanimously, and I might add, rather unkindly, pooh poohed my suggestion. Given the number of droppings in the park, there seemed to be a lot of pooh poohing going on that day. I scoured the scrub for a kangaroo in vain. Were those kangaroo droppings? If you threw them would they bounce?

Springbok and impala were everywhere all wanting their photo taken. The latter have the markings of a Macdonald’s “M” on their rumps which is apt as they are a favourite “take away” for lions. Zebras crossed the road, buffalo hid in the bushes, wart hogs did “piggy” things and monkeys sneered at us from the tree tops. If we are descended from apes surely I would be better at climbing trees? A herd of 22 elephants cavorted in a swamp trying to keep cool.

A huge boabob tree stood in the centre of the park. It looked as though it had been there for thousands of years. It had that “established” look.

“From the time of Jesus,” suggested Linda. John nodded in agreement and, as he was the only one with a book on boabob trees at home (just how many books on boabob trees are there?) we deferred to his greater authority.

Mahango is one of the few game reserves where you can get out of your vehicle. No doubt there is a disclaimer against being eaten by lions or trampled by buffalo. For some reason John didn’t want to be mauled by lions and only left the car with great reluctance. Attracted by the evocative sounds of singing hippos we pushed our way through the bushes behind the boabob tree to be confronted by a vast plain stretching out before us. The river with singing hippos and flying white egrets was a fair distance away, and beyond that lay a range of mountains from which many palls of dusky smoke drifted lazily into the sky.

I had made a carrot cake especially for the trip. After slicing off its burnt bottom and disguising it with a soft cheese and icing sugar topping it looked almost edible. Unfortunately, the heat of the car melted the top, and most now was creeping across the boot of Linda’s car leaving the cake looking as though it had a pepperoni pizza topping. Strangely enough, the monkeys at the picnic site made no attempt to steal our food. The cake was unexpectedly delicious. I may try putting real pepperoni on the top next time.

Have you ever lain in bed in a semi conscious state and gradually become aware of a persistent sound in the background that you feel you’ve been listening to forever? A semi conscious state is my natural milieu. Some are born zombie, some achieve zombie and some have zombie thrust upon them. I am definitely in the second category. It was all my own work, in fact, my life’s achievement. Ask me what I did yesterday and I wouldn’t have a clue. See, zombie. In fact, Karin (our intrepid, Dutch house mate) asked me if I’d had a good morning. My mind was blank. I couldn’t for the life of me remember what I had done that morning (zombie). In my defense, it transpired that I had done nothing. “It’s senile dementia,” you will be thinking. No. I’ve always had it. Is there such a thing as juvenile dementia? Can brain cells die when they’ve never been used?

As I was saying, if I can remember that far back, the night in question, I was falling into a deeper state of unconsciousness, (commonly called sleep) when my unused brain cells became aware of a persistent sound in the background. It was not an unpleasant sound, such as howling mongrels or cock crowing, so I let it be. But it did not go away. It sounded as though it was coming from a neighbouring garden so it was nothing to do with me. It was not my responsibility. I fancied it sounded like crackling flames. Someone must be having a midnight bonfire. But there was no smell of smoke. This was unusual because even when nobody is having a bonfire in Rundu the air smells of wood smoke, which in itself is not unpleasant, putting you in mind of a) delicious braai, b) roasting chestnuts c) Guy Fawkes, take your pick. It definitely sounded like fire. If our neighbour’s house was not burning down then maybe ours was? This thought was more than usually motivating and, clothed only in the cloak of night (tropical nights are very balmy), I peeked out of our bedroom door.

Bats have very sensitive directional antennae. They can fly through a forest without hitting a tree. When was the last time you found a dead bat lying at the foot of a tree? [QED] I have never particularly wanted to be a bat. Black is so passé nowadays. Just thought, that would have made me Batman, no? Cool. Anyway, I could have used the bat’s keen auditory abilities that night. The fire was at the front door; no, in the garage; yes, the garage. But there were no flames dancing merrily through the garage window and no smell of smoke. I listened again. It could be a waterfall. Had the rains begun already? My last remaining brain cell woke up. What was in the garage apart from beer bottles, boxes, Linda’s car and a pile of spare parts which had cost her a fortune to replace? (She’d already, and very honestly, warned us against buying her car.) The hot water tank, of course. It must be spewing its contents all over Linda’s car. Well, at least she’ll have a clean car. I lifted the garage door and a blast of hot air hit me. It was like entering a sauna. All our precious hot water was being dumped onto the garage floor. It didn’t even have the decency to land on Linda’s car. But even Linda, the next morning found enough hot water to have a shower. But isn’t that the way in Africa? Disaster might strike and it often does, but by some miracle or quirk of fate things seem to work out ok in the end. I don’t understand it but long may it last.