Hayestack

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.

I have found a new pet, or more accurately, it has found me. Why it chose to land in my garden and wink at me with its great golden eye, I don’t know. It is a banded goshawk according to Nico (who loves birds) and who knows about these things as he has a book. It’s funny but the name goshawk sprang to mind as soon as I saw it. I was walking around the back of the garage to water my germinating melon plants and I almost trod on it. If it had been a black mamba I would be communicating this to you from celestial realms where everyone has state of the art laptops and free, superfast broadband connections.

Apart from its razor sharp beak and stiletto-like talons it did not look at all dangerous. I determined to keep my distance in case it mistook me for a frog or vole and tried to carry me off to its dining room. It made no attempt to fly away. It was friendship at first sight. I was so happy with my new pet I began to fantasize about how we would spend time together. Birds of prey like to hunt. We could roam the hillsides together looking for small animals to snatch and tear apart. Naturally, I wouldn’t eat small rodents myself but if I taught it the skills of an osprey, maybe it could catch fish for me. Oh, the wonderful times we would have together, my goshawk and I.

My new friend needs a photograph and a name.

“Don’t go anywhere. Just fetching my camera,” I said. He winked assent. We were already communicating.

As good as his word he hadn’t moved a muscle when I returned. In fact, he looked like a very handsome goshawk statue. Only his winking eye told me this goshawk was not stuffed. We had a little photo-shoot and I tried to capture his best side. I approached him from all angles and he knew instinctively not to fidget. His poise before the camera was natural and serene and would have made an excellent goshawk fashion model.

Now, the name. Spurning alliteration (Gordon the goshawk, Gary the goshawk just didn’t suit) I went for SK since initials are always cool and matey. They stand for “serial killer,” but I’m not going to tell SK that.

“Here, SK,” would be our cry over the vast Namibian hills.

Karen arrived and was introduced.

“Nico (who loves birds) would want to see this,” she said and gave him a ring. He came rushing over and confirmed him to be a banded goshawk. By this time I was getting concerned about my new little friend. Apart from his eye he hadn’t moved at all since we’d met. I had just read “The Diving Bell and the Butterfly” about a man who could only communicate by moving his eyelid. Maybe this was the goshawk version. Or, perhaps he was exhausted, even ill. Nico (who loves birds) offered SK a mop handle to perch on. He ignored it. Nico gave him a poke. SK did the splits and toppled over. Sadly, it was SK’s final topple. My new, two hour, pet was gone taking with him my hopes and dreams.

John, our gardener has interred SK in an unmarked grave amongst the frangipani trees.