Hayestack

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. 

Penina, the director of Denis project arrived “side-saddle” on the back of a motorbike/taxi. It was a good way to travel if you wanted to avoid the squash of an over full minibus/taxi.   If you couldn’t afford the motorbike taxi you used a push-bike taxi.   I had been wondering why rows of young men on bikes and motorbikes lined every town and village we drove through.   I though they were just the local youths “hanging out” and littering the roads like they do in Britain.  Instead, they were working hard to earn a living.  You had to feel sorry for the poor chap puffing and panting up a steep hill with a large woman on the back.  He earned his money.  Sometimes a motorbike would zoom past with the passenger frantically trying to hold onto a pig or goat that didn’t want to go to market that day.  Everywhere young lads were struggling with bicycles piled high with plantains.  Another popular crop in this region was sorghum.  Sheets covered with the grass-like seeds were drying in the sun.  It is used for food and for an alcoholic beverage.  If you see a man with the yellow, plastic water bottles it is probably his supply of alcohol, especially if the bottle is bulging.  It is only the women who carry water.  The zombie-like expressions of many of the men, standing by the side of the road testified to the fact that this “gut-rot” was a potent brew.  As Paul, the assistant director of Denis project said, “Unfortunately, continued over indulgence can destroy not only him but also his family and, ultimately, the fabric of society”.   Most weddings take place in the sorghum season because that is when alcohol is available to give the guests.   At the project a bridal procession was leaving the church.  She looked pretty in her white bridal gown, her eyes demurely lowered to the ground.  Her uncle, one of the project’s trustees told me that the usual cost of a Ugandan wedding was about 5 million Ugandan shillings, which is about £5000 – a lot of money by anyone’s standard.

We drove across the airfield to Denis house.  The nearby mountains looked like pudding basins on the landscape.  We parked in a field and started to walk the rest of the way to the house.  Paul drove up on his motorbike.  “Anyone want a lift?”  Georgina was on the back of that bike before anyone could say,” yes, please” and they were off, bouncing across the countryside.  Denis came running out to meet us.  His expression didn’t show it but he had been so excited at Sally’s visit that he hadn’t slept the previous night.   Paul explained that this was the happiest day of Denis’ life.  Even when given presents Ugandan children don’t show emotion on their faces, but they are happy and grateful inside.  This rang true with our experience at the previous project.  We were shown the large water tank that Sally’s sponsorship had bought along with the “portaloo” toilet in the garden.  Sally was given beans, sorghum and Irish (ordinary as opposed to sweet) potatoes.  Like the chicken at Kasese, these were given to the project.  We had visited Denis’ secondary school that morning. The classrooms were basic, empty apart from a blackboard and rows of wooden desks crammed in.  A few students were using their holiday doing extra maths.  Education is one way out of dire poverty and the competition is fierce.  Extra, hard work is necessary.   The students were courteous, charming and didn’t seem to mind that our distraction had probably cost them a couple of marks in their next maths exam.  On our way out we met the headmaster.  When he had worked out who Denis was he told us all about his progress.  Moses suggestion that Sally might like to see some of Denis’ work was a bridge too far.  “I think we’ll leave it at that,” he said friendly but firmly.  One doesn’t mess with the headmaster so we didn’t hang around to be put in detention.   It struck me that Moses at school had been well-experienced at winding up headmasters.

“Virginity is for both boys and girls”, “Say no to casual sex” “Say no to bad touching”.  These were some of the slogans painted on the exterior walls of the primary school attached to the project.  Provided you could read English there was no getting away from the message.  It was something to read at playtime. The previous sponsor visitor had taken exception to the school and moved their child to another one.

There was no avoiding the switch-back ride back to Kabale.  We stopped at the top of a hill and Sally gave the remaining gifts to two ragged children at the side of the road.  Suddenly, we were besieged by swarms of them, clambering around and pushing forward with their hands out.  They had materialised out of thin air.  “Go away.  You mustn’t beg.”  Moses waved his stick at them.   We were lucky to get away with our lives.  By this time, I was beginning to suffer from a distinct case of goodwill fatigue.  Maybe it was creeping old age but, by then, I’d had enough of children for the time being.  My benign smile was beginning to droop.

The smooth tarmac and the White Horse Inn of Kabale improved our spirits.  This hotel, though patronised by the President of Uganda on his forays into this region, had seen better days.  The restaurant was particularly grand and well decorated and we had the waiter’s full attention being the only diners at one point.  The lounge boasted a vigorous log fire which seemed strange and out of place so near the equator.

We spent the time before dinner walking along the main street where we attracted the inevitable posse of children.  We were helped by an armed security guard who kept them at bay while we drank our fizzy Mirinda Fruities (Vimtos) on a café veranda.  “I need to buy books for school” was on of the lines.  If that didn’t work, “I’m an orphan.  Please assist me” would surely follow.  It’s not that we were unsympathetic, but harassing strangers was no long-term solution to their plight.  We’re not monsters, honest.