Hayestack

  East London

After a couple of days Willy Junior gives us a lift the short distance from Kei Mouth to East London. We have enjoyed our stay but the relief on departing was like leaving home for a second time. The feeling of independence was palpable and the world was waiting to greet us.

East London, like its UK counterpart is run-down and dilapidated. Its wide streets remind us of former, grander days but they are now quiet and deserted. The promenade has more life. The southern end is more opulent with a beach recreational area, comprising trampoline and other amusements. A smart, promenade shelter is spoilt by a large dollop of human excrement on the seat. We move on and eat our spam sandwiches on a bench overlooking the Indian Ocean. East London is predominantly a black town. We seem to be the only white faces around. The guide book advises travellers that the northern esplanade is dangerous. We wonder why and head north. We pass through a gated fence monitored by police. Families are sitting around eating picnics as if this were a bank holiday. This is not dangerous. We are most at risk from the sand blowing into our eyes when we sit on the beach. We walk further up to see a crowd of people bathing in the sea. A massive crowd has gathered and seem to be hanging around waiting to see someone drown. We don’t linger. The males are in groups and their eyes follow us as we walk around. We head south and feel less uncomfortable when we leave the gated northern esplanade. The town has an old colonial feel. The houses and streets are grand but dilapidated. They have seen better days and the roads are eerily quiet.

The Nic Nac backpackers hostel is an oasis of charm and tranquillity. Our tent just fits into the secluded garden bordered by banana plants and other exotic species. There is a pool and good cooking facilities. We are in paradise and will be reluctant to leave.

Nic Nac Backpackers

Camping in a backpackers’ hostel is one of the cheapest and most enjoyable forms of accommodation available. We are travelling light, so we have a tent, a sheet sleeping bag, but no mattress. Who needs luxuries like a mattress? Humans slept on the ground before mattresses were invented and it is surprising how quickly your body becomes accustomed to it. Try sleeping on the floor for a few nights. You’ll love it and, either your spine will benefit, or you will be crippled for life.

We are on our own now and have to get to Cape Town by Christmas Day when the Intercape bus will take us back home to Rundu. The main buses along the coast are prohibitively expensive. Georgina is feeling adventurous and wants to take the black minibus taxis which are much cheaper and within our price range. The taxi area is a sprawling, chaotic mass of people. One man can make sense of it and tells us which minibus will take us to Port Elizabeth. We squeeze in with our entire luggage so tightly that we can barely move. The rucksack wedged on my lap must be a sure proof against any accident. I feel safe, though I cannot move my legs. This is fine for five minutes when I decide I want to move my legs. This casual desire rapidly turns into an absolute necessity. The very fact that I cannot move them makes me crave it even more. I will go mad if I cannot move my legs. Do I have legs? I can’t feel them. Just as I begin to panic the bus stops and the rearrangement of one bag turns hell into heaven.

Nineteen of us are travelling at great speed in a minibus taxi allowed to carry 12 people. Georgina and I thought we were the last to board but we waited for at least a half a dozen more people to squeeze on. We feel safe and everyone is friendly, but I wish the man behind hadn’t been eating garlic for breakfast. Who eats garlic for breakfast?

“Whatever you do, don’t use the minibus taxis,” everyone has warned us. There are a variety of reasons for this. The vehicles are not road worthy; the drivers take unnecessary risks; they may even fall asleep at the wheel; you may be kidnapped, mugged or worse. There is a cemetery in Rundu dedicated to the victims of one minibus accident. The entire complement of 18 was killed outright in a horrendous accident on the Windhoek road some years ago. Drivers are not regulated and can be reckless. They drive fast and sometimes overtake on dangerous bends. The driver might have driven too long without a break. The vehicle may be mechanically unsafe. There are many reasons why not to use the minibus taxis. Our experiences, on the other hand, are generally pleasant. The exclusively black passengers, are friendly and helpful. One young lady even tolerates our luggage on her lap on one journey. The drivers are caring and considerate. The taxi ranks may be dens of thieves and muggers but we see none. Above all travel is cheap and affordable. The vehicles range from new and clean to old, battered and dirty. Only one vehicle felt unsafe and that was between Stellenbosch and a town on the outskirts of Cape Town. The driver takes 6 attempts to shut the crumpled door next to me and the rusting vehicle bounces along at break-neck speed, threatening to roll at every corner. The journey is mercifully short.

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. 

Try wedging yourself in a tree where a branch meets the trunk and take a succession of 10 minute naps throughout the night. This is how the bushmen traditionally slept and how they became known as tree sleepers. How they managed to procreate is a mystery.

At the end of the Tsumeb training we stayed on a campsite called “tree sleepers” which has canopies built high in the tree canopy on which you can erect your tent (no slinging legs over branches here). The bushmen are ancient nomadic tribes of hunter gatherers but the hunting bit has been radically curtailed since the government naturally does not like the stock of animals in the game reserves being depleted. Consequently, the bushman’s self sufficient way of life and culture is dying and they will all eventually live in corrugated tin shacks in a rundown township and sit around drinking homebrew with the other unemployed. It’s called progress.

As dusk fell we sat around a large campfire holding bits of dough on long sticks over the glowing embers of a wood fire. We ate kudu (a kind of large antelope) in all its manifestations. We ate it roasted, stewed, minced, boiled and pounded to death into a kind of powder. Kudu is very versatile and very tasty. Unfortunately, Mr Sainsbury does not stock it yet. Get some when he does. After this we had the traditional bushman desert of ice-cream. I think it may have been black mambo flavour.

The best, however, was yet to come. We were led by young George (a traditional Bushman name) in a torchlight procession through the pitch-black night to a circle in the forest where a large fire was already blazing. On one side was a group of about ten young bush people (average age, maybe 15 years) in traditional bushmen costume (ie. not much at all, maybe just a scrap of animal skin to cover their modesty). They performed a variety of traditional dances one of which closely resembled the “ant” dance (see Tsumeb 1). The boys shuffled around in a very close approximation to ice skating and the girls escorted a rather solemn faced bride to her wedding. For a few moments we were all bushmen observing and re-enacting our culture under a star-studded African sky.

Later that evening we had an electrical storm which sent those treesleeping scurrying groundwards to finish the night in the terrestrial tents.

The bush toilets deserve a mention. These are traditional porcelain surrounded by stick walls. It is notoriously difficult to find sticks that lie together without leaving gaps. This has the advantage that one can see who is approaching in sufficient time to burst into song to prevent any surprises as there are no doors in the toilets or showers. I recommend showering with a friend as this affords the opportunity for a rendition of two part harmony.

The following morning George took us on a bushwalk. He showed us how to make string, how to snare game and how to make poison (so don’t cross me!). He told us that the tastiest mushrooms grow at the base of a termite mound and he showed us how to make fire. That’s him in the picture above. I don’t think my new-found skills will be of much use in the UK.

This will probably be a short entry as I shall probably fall asleep over my computer. The reason is simple. Throughout every night we are subjected to the deafening cacophony of a hundred Baskerville hounds seemingly baying for our blood. The effect is spine-chillingly awful. It can start with one puppy spluttering over a chicken bone and within seconds the whole of Rundu resounds to the howls of huge packs of pseudo wolves. They snarl and threaten each other. “You want a piece of me, you come and get me”. And they often do. One place for carving each other up seems to be just outside our bedroom window, and given the fact that there is no glass in it, just fine mosquito net and a few slats, a savage fight can sound alarmingly near. I have not dared put on the light in case they are actually in the bedroom.

Almost as annoying is the irritation felt at seeing these very same dogs the next morning stretched out under a shady tree snoozing the daylight hours away so that they can stop us sleeping at night. Rose took us on a tour of Rundu in her car. We passed many dozing dogs. “Swerve to the left,” I urged as we approached one, but Rose could not be prevailed upon to decrease the dog population by a measly one. Neither should revenge tempt you to give a dozing dog a hefty kick up the north pole. This is rabies country, after all. Let sleeping dogs lie. What puzzles me, though, is, if Africans are prepared to eat dog, then why are there still so many of them around? They are a good source of nutrients and they probably taste as good as a steak. Eat more dog is what I say.

Then the cocks start crowing. Don’t believe these creatures only crow at dawn. I can personally vouch for the fact that, given half a chance they will crow all through the night. There is a cock a few houses away. Its call is answered by one a quarter of a mile down the road, then by one a quarter of a mile further on and so on until the sound of the cock reached Windhoek seven hundred miles away. Georgina assures me that when her grandfather kept cocks he would put them overnight in a coop where the ceiling was so low the cocks couldn’t stretch out their necks to crow. Ignore the connotations of medieval torture. This sounds like a good idea.

In the rare and, oh so brief, moments of silence in the night I can hear something prowling in the garden. It sounds as if it has the weight and dimensions of a gorilla. It can’t be John the gardener as he only comes on Mondays and Thursdays. What it is and what it’s doing I do not and don’t wish to know. Besides, Georgina is safely between me and the window, so I snuggle down under my mosquito net choosing to ignore that a rampant primate would make short work of a flimsy bit of lace.

A new horror has emerged to destroy any chance of a goodnight’s sleep. Yesterday, a couple were married next door. Part of the tradition is to ensure that anyone within a one mile radius gets no sleep that night. They easily achieve this with what sounds like a hundred African drummers a choir of a thousand well versed in African chants and excessively loud ululations. You have to remember that our windows are neither double nor even single glazed. This facilitates the sounds travelling directly from their drums and voices to our ears with no let or hindrance. After 2 hours your brain begins to throb. After 4 you are on the verge of insanity. After 6, your thoughts turn to bloody murder. Each of our gardens in this part of town has a large and substantial air raid shelter plonked in the middle of it to protect the population against Angolan shelling during the regional uprising a few years ago. Contrary to popular belief, they were not shelling Namibia for helping their enemies in the war but, I believe, to stop the nightly cacophony of dogs, cocks and weddings. Unfortunately, they did not succeed.