Hayestack

  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.

Today we were invited for a cruise on the Kavango River. Fourteen of us, volunteers with VSO & Interteam, set out at 6.30am. It was dark when we left home but soon the stars disappeared and the orange glow on the horizon showed that it was almost daytime. We floated along in the flat bottomed boat eating breakfast and watching so many different and interesting birds, the red shouldered widow, the carmine and blue cheeked bee eaters, the darter, the purple heron, the blacksmith lapwing etc It was great, so beautiful, calm and peaceful. Here’s wishing Friedwart & Sylvia a wonderful expedition to Malawi and happy return to Switzerland.

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. 

The final exercise of the week was to go in groups to different organisations to discover their views on Namibian education. My group had to visit the small but impressive Tsumeb Museum. It is run and owned by an elderly German couple and is stuffed with pictures and memorabilia from the German Second Reich which colonised Namibia at the end of the 19^th century. There is no hint that German occupation was a disaster for the Namibian people, Herero and Nama in particular. The German curators eyed us with suspicion at first but melted and even became outspoken when they realised this was not a post Second World War skirmish. Disregarding Basil Fawlty’s advice, we did, in fact, mention the war, the colonists’ war with the Herero and Nama people when the Germans slaughtered hundreds of thousands, pushed the remainder into the Kalahari desert and eventually sent the remnants to concentration camps and into slavery. I was surprised that there was no hint of this genocide in the museum, but the curators justified this by saying it didn’t happen in Tsumeb. Obviously, genocide or not, if it doesn’t happen in your back yard you are at liberty to ignore it. This species of Namibian ostrich was new to us. The curators were much more vociferous when we began to ask about education and the environment.

“Young people don’t want to visit museums. They get everything from the internet,” they explained.

“Do you try to make the museum more appealing to children?”

“No.”

“Do you go into schools or even send them promotional material?”

“No. We had a party of ninety children here once and it was too many. We had to split them into 2 groups,” they explained, and we could still see the stress in their eyes. I felt sorry for them.

You have to admit, children get under your feet. They pick their noses and touch things. They chatter, they bustle about and exert far too much energy. Museums should be reserved for the elderly where they can sit and muse upon how much better life was in the old days.

We mentioned the copper mine. Their countenance immediately changed. You could see them begin to seethe, their blood begin to boil. The mine shaft was in the centre of town, its tower providing an attractive landmark especially when lit up at night, much like the one built by monsieur Eiffel, though, of course, on a much smaller scale.

“It should be shut down,” they insisted, as if talking about Dachau concentration camp. “It is spewing out arsenic, heavy metals and asbestos into the environment and people don’t know about it. Don’t drink the water,” they warned. We, innocents, who had been drinking the water all week, felt suitably alarmed. We had felt fine and healthy before this revelation. Now we felt decidedly ill. We slunk back to our hotel and downed a large glass of Windhoek lager thinking this might be one of our last acts on earth.

The mine had been closed twice before with the loss of 500 jobs. Phoenix-like it has both times risento life. Maybe this explained why Tsumeb was a ghost town. Maybe all the inhabitants were being gradually poisoned. I had thought Tsumeb would be a great place to which to retire. Maybe, here, you would reach your final resting place sooner than anticipated.

Our second visit was to the Ministry of Youth, National Service, Youth and Culture. We were met by a large, black lady bustling around her office as if harassed by a wasp.

We were greeted with,

“I hope you’re not going to take up too much of my time!”

This came across as a command rather than a question and something told us that this “Big Mamma” would not mince her words. Half a question might be all she had time for. I stood by the open door ready to run. She was dripping with gold even to a couple of gold teeth which glinted in the sun, and she had a circular eruption in the middle of her chest just above her very ample bosoms. It looked very much like a bullet hole, and there was no doubt in my mind that someone had attempted to assassinate her, but only a gold bullet could do the job.

“I deal in crime, youth crime. I sort out peoples’ lives,” she asserted, warming to her subject. I imagined her to be a one woman rehabilitation centre. One word from her and the most hardened criminal would mend his ways forever.

“I’ll do anything to help my youth. I’ll sit with the magistrate, with the prosecutor, visit cells.” She leaned back in her chair with satisfaction and smiled at me broadly. Her gold teeth dazzled me. I felt like an insect before a praying mantis. My legs were jelly, I could not escape. I was a gonna. She had just to flick out her tongue….

“Come on, ask me more questions. I’m enjoying this.” Time was now no object. We were mesmerised.

We asked about school fees. She winced as though we had touched a nerve. The boiler inside her was building up pressure. Soon steam would be shooting out of her ears and nose.

“It was better before independence.” She snorted. If she had said “I am a witch and I eat children,” we would have been no more surprised.

I don’t want you to make notes about this,” she said to me imperiously. My note book fell to my side as thought in fear of its life. My memory cells creaked into operation.

“Education was free before independence. Talent was optimised, not wasted. I have not paid my school fees. The gold chains draped around her neck told us she could well afford to.

“The government promised us free education and they should keep their promise. I shall have to pay though.” She relented.

“I want to see my child’s report and they won’t give it to me unless I have paid the fees. There is too much bureaucracy, too much incompetence. You take a large group of children a long way to an event, a concert or something, and half way there someone says they have not booked the tickets, or they’ve lost the form to register for food. The children go back home disappointed.” She slumps back in her chair exasperated. The next second she’s up again giving me another beaming smile.

“Why doesn’t she just kill me now and have done with it,” I think.

“What is the state of education in Namibia?” She is so eager for questions she has started asking them of herself.

“Well, you know, the Government ministers send their children to school in South Africa.” She looks at us knowingly. We try to look disapproving. She seems satisfied. She wants more questions but it is time to go. Will the mantis release its prey?

“You know, my colleagues are jealous of me, yes, j_e_a_l_o_u_s.” She says the word with relish.

“They say I get special treatment. I get things done. I go over their heads. I go to the top. They don’t like that.” She certainly seemed like a woman who would stop at nothing to get things done. I tried not to stare at the assassins’ bullet hole, mesmerising though it was.

We eased ourselves out of the door and she followed us down the stairs. Were we in Tsumeb long? Was she going to ask us back for more questions? She was going down to Windhoek to sort out the protesting orphans of war veterans who wanted Namibian documents and rights that had been denied them. They were camped outside Parliament and were in for an interesting time. She would get things done. She would sort them out. We did not doubt this for one second.

A sad note

David, one of the more mature volunteers, received news that his father had been taken dangerously ill. A flight home was booked on the internet and he was driven back to Windhoek overnight. Unfortunately, his father died before he reached home. The news saddened us all.

What perplexed me, however, was the fact that 2 two of the volunteers were left to drive David to Windhoek, thereby missing some of the training, while the VSO staff seemingly sat around doing nothing. I hope I am wrong about this and that their continued presence in Tsumeb was essential. But it did not seem that way. This was not their finest hour.

The town of Tsumeb was the location for the second part of VSO training. It is an old copper mining town about 2 hours drive from Rundu and is a tiny version of Windhoek. This old German town has green lawns, smart shops, pavements and even traffic lights. One of the more charming characteristics of this place is that there is very little traffic. I stood in the middle of Main Street at 5.30pm on a Saturday afternoon and there was not a vehicle to be seen in either direction, not even parked. In any other town I would have been flattened in seconds. Most of the time it is a ghost town but comes alive at midday when the shop workers take their lunch break and loll against the walls or sit on the pavements. Several cars can then be seen congesting the road. I once saw a queue of three cars at the lights in the centre of town. No doubt the town authorities will bring in a congestion charge if it gets worse. At least, I think the lights are traffic lights, though they seem to serve no real purpose as the traffic is so light. The alternative explanation is that they are the Christmas lights left over from last year. They are bunched in groups facing all directions and are seen at best advantage from the exact centre of the junction. I stood there one evening (there was no danger as there was no traffic) and watched spell-bound as they twinkled at me like lights on a Christmas tree. It was all I could do to stop myself from bursting into a verse of “Hark the Herald Angels sing”.

We were reunited with the other new volunteers full of new experiences and enthusiasm (Oh, to be young again). They are scattered around north Namibia, mostly in places with names beginning with “O” that are totally forgettable. They all loved their jobs, the people and the country.

Our VSO leaders had the best rooms in the best hotel in town. The rooms led off a small courtyard shaded by luxuriant flowering shrubs and overhanging trees in which the swimming pool was situated. A stone sculpture, reminiscent of an Italian villa stood next to the pool. We, the volunteers were destined for self-catering bungalows but the first of our group to arrive were horrified, designated them a “gulag” and refused to stay there. Consequently, we were booked into the second best hotel in town. This was still pretty good luxury and every time I had a hot shower, a huge breakfast, lunch and dinner, I mentally thanked all those VSO donors who had given their precious money to make this luxury possible for us. Admittedly, this was an exceptional circumstance, but in the interests of solidarity and not wishing to squander meagre resources on such opulent living, maybe VSO staff should have been prepared to join us in cheaper accommodation. This, however, would have gone against Namibian/African culture where the few at the top get to spend foreign donations on conferences in the best venues, with expensive accommodation and meals while the great majority at the bottom eke out a meagre existence on “pap” (maize meal) in a mud hut. I have heard it argued, by people who should know better, that this sort of thing is understandable as Namibia is a young country (18 years) and still developing. We should be more understanding when they squander on luxury money that could have helped alleviate poverty. But hey, that’s teenagers all over, isn’t it?

We walked around the Cultural Village Museum exhibiting a variety of huts made by different tribes. Those of us with open sandals became suddenly aware that they were being eaten by ants. Some managed to find a rock to stand on out of their way, but most of us jumped up and down, stamping our feet to shake off the painful creatures. Having seen a few African dances, I am convinced that this was how they started. When you stamp your feet you automatically spread out your arms to keep balance. All you then need is a young man with loads of energy to expend, thrashing the living daylights out of a drum, and you have an authentic African dance. Try it, unless you have a weak heart and/or don’t want to look like an idiot.

It’s good to stamp in Africa. One of the volunteers trod on a scorpion without realising it during the lecture on land reform. The rest of us had fallen asleep. It was the only exciting thing that happened that afternoon.

Etosha is one of the best game reserves in Africa. It is amazing that anything can live on this vast arid plain and the fact that elephants, giraffes, zebra and many kinds of antelope amongst other large animals thrive in such abundance is a miracle.

We took the “gravel” road to Etosha. This kind of road is one that the builders forgot to finish, or they ran out of tar. Consequently, your car, leaving a billowing trail of dust in its wake, will rattle and shake until the joints knock and bits start falling off. An ordinary saloon is no good for this kind of road. You need a 4×4, and a tough one at that. Then you can fly at speed across the ridges and bumps, sneering at their attempts to slow you down and wreck your car. The roads inside the game reserve were even worse. Here there were ridges the size of the Grand Canyon and pot-holes the depth of Cheddar Gorge. We zigzagged our way along the Etosha roads like drunken maniacs with the ominous clanking of universal joints in our ears. But the view outside the car was astounding. In the distance we saw a group of giraffes towering above the trees. We had to take photos. We had not seen a group of giraffes before. By the end of the day, after photographing dozens of giraffes within kicking distance we realised how lame the first photos were.

We seemed to see springbok, impala and zebra at every turn. They watched us from the side of the road as though thoroughly bored by the whole business. At least they didn’t demand money to have their photograph taken. Humans are more canny. The other day I took a photo of the River Kavango as it meandered through a particularly interesting piece of countryside. In the distance I heard a woman calling to me. It turned out she wanted money as I’d apparently taken her photo. She was a blob in the far distance and not a very interesting one at that. Though I admired her enterprising spirit and sheer gall, she was disappointed that day.

We hadn’t seen an elephant all day and when we’d just about given up, a proud male came marching majestically out of the bush. For some reason all the other animals abandoned the water hole allowing the elephant free reign to wallow in the mud.

We visited several water holes that day and saw many elephants squirting water and chucking dust over themselves. Springbok lined up at the water’s edge sipping nervously, giraffes splayed out their legs doing the splits in an effort to have a drink. Amazingly, they managed to recover their posture with little effort. The birds were too laid back and didn’t notice the black-backed jackal stalking them until it had one in its jaws. It was a light snack and gone in a second. The jackal had a harder job surprising the birds after that. One very common bird was the kori bustard. Karin, our Dutch friend, misheard this, we assume, and every time she spotted this large bird she would shout with glee,

“Look, there’s another bastard over there!”

There were lions and leopards in the park but we didn’t see any that day. As the sun sank, the hyenas began to slink out of the shadows one at a time on their way to the water-hole. Looking sly and savage they gathered together for the night’s hunting.

We looked around. All the other cars had left.

“The clock at the entrance definitely said closing at seven-thirty,” announced Georgina with her usual tone of misplaced confidence.

It was now getting quite dark and we were the only people on the road. We were locked in. I was driving and we picked up speed, considerable speed. We nearly took out an impala but it managed to jump off the road just in time. A large mass came into view by the side of the road. It was black and had a horn at one end.

“Rhinoceros,” I shouted, slamming on the brakes. By the time we had reversed, the rhino had sloped off into the bush leaving us with a view of its disappearing rump, which, strangely, resembled the expression on the face of the woman gate-keeper when we eventually arrived at the exit.

The tense conversation went like this:

“You’re late”

“The clock said 7.30 closing time.”

“The clock’s broken. Closing is seven.” (How did everyone else know?)

She frowned and obviously thought we were idiots or desperate criminals.

“Where’s your tickets?” Yes, we still had tickets.

“You Namibians?” As VSO we paid the local rate. Tourists pay at least double.

We didn’t look like Namibians and were obviously confidence tricksters.

With a humiliating amount of profuse apologies, ( I was prepared to go so far as throwing myself on the ground and kissing her feet) she capitulated and instructed her henchman to unlock the gate and let us out. As we drove back to the campsite we felt relieved that we had experienced a close encounter with the wildest creature in the game park and survived.

Hats off to VSO. They don’t send you out unprepared into the bush. They train you how to swat mosquitoes and wrestle with crocodiles first. Training takes place under a canopy out of doors. If you are unlucky the sun will slide around and strike you on the top of your head when you least expect it. A bottle of water within reach of your right hand is always essential. Snatch it up as soon as the first signs of dehydration appear.

The training sessions were an invaluable source of amusement. I shall never forget the sight of Daan, our esteemed leader, wrestling with a flip-chart page, that had been whipped up by the wind. Try as he might he could not keep it down. The persistent page kept flapping around even when Daan practically threw himself across it. Eventually somebody brought a large dollop of Blutak. Concentrating on what he was saying he proceeded to apply it a to the wrong plage. I am ashamed to say that I was too amused at the sight of Daan wrestling with the flip chart to help him out of his predicament. Shame on me.

The highlight of the week was, possibly, the “drop-off” exercise. We were to be abandoned in an obscure, if not dangerous part of Windhoek, be obliged to visit nearby organisations and take a taxi back to the VSO centre.

My group comprised Laura, Barbara and myself. We were dropped off in one of the coloured/black townships. Fortunately, Georgina and I had explored this area a couple of days previously so I knew roughly where we were.

Our first stop was at the Tabitha Church and Care Home. The Rev. Wilhelm Pieters, (or was it Pieter Wilhelms?) sat in his oversized leather chair, the lord of all he surveyed. Don’t get the wrong idea. This was a good man. Though he was the big chief of his area in the Evangelical Lutheran Church, a legacy of former German colonisation, he seemed dissatisfied that his work comprised mostly bureaucracy involved with the care home and social work.

“I want to get back to the people and get dirt under my fingernails”, he said. Given the state of local housing I didn’t think it would take him long.

The second organisation we had to visit was the NTA (National Training Authority). This taught plumbing, electric skills, brick-laying etc. In fact, the skills you can never find in the UK. I wondered what the call-out charge would be from Windhoek to London. Prohibitive, no doubt.

We bumped into the cook. Joseph, the Principal could not be found. She insisted on giving us a tour of the premises ending with the cafeteria which was her pride and joy. On our way out she suggested we pay our respects to the Principal before we left. The Principal was not to be found. The Administrative assistant insisted on giving us a tour of the offices. How could we refuse? They had some lovely offices, and the toilets were useful , but, as they say, when you’ve seen one office you’ve seen them all.

We stood by the side of the road waiting for a taxi. A red, battered , old banger slowly came to a halt in front of us. Maybe the engine had given up? Someone was sitting in the passenger seat. Thank goodness, it was already taken. We would wait for another. The passenger got in the back and the driver beckoned us inside. He intended us to share. This, no doubt, was part of the VSO Windhoek taxi experience. We determined to take it in our stride. Laura, taking advantage of Barbara’s and my state of shock, nipped in by the driver. I, in an uncharacteristic flash of chivalry, slid in next to the black man leaving Barbara only about 2 inches of seat. Barbara, who I’m sure would not be offended if I described her figure as less than twig-like, seemed reluctant to attempt the 2 inches and would only enter once I had squashed the stranger against the car door. The banger accelerated slowly. I wondered if it would ever reach a cruising speed. The roundabout occurred before I had a chance to find out. Turning right at junctions where you have to cross the flow of oncoming traffic produced the greatest adrenalin rush. It was a game of chance where our lives were the forfeit. The driver, no doubt had the accelerator nailed to the floor as cars hurtled towards us. The image of a white car closing on us at speed while our car struggles to gain momentum, is printed indelibly on my brain.

I can safely say that I have not been more intimate with anyone since I married Georgina 36 years ago. The G force produced by the car’s swerving around corners projected my body forcefully and irresistibly against that of the stranger. My hips were already pressing hard against Barbara’s. That wasn’t so bad. I knew Barbara slightly and she didn’t seem the sort to cry “rape” at the drop of a hat. What was the local word for “sorry” ? “Mpandu?” No, that meant “thankyou” in Rutwangali. I could hardly say that. Mercifully, the car stopped and the stranger got out. With relief, I moved across the seat, free of any ambiguous, and, I have to say, unintentional, physical contact. Barbara looked relieved as well.

Sitting that evening on the Ojari terrace overlooking Windhoek and sipping a bottle of Windhoek lager, I had to conclude that this drop-off exercise, fun though it was , proved inefficient as a means of “weeding out” the weakest volunteers. More effective would have been a “drop-off point in the middle of the Namib desert. The toughest would have survived and the rest would have 2 years to get to the airport before their visas ran out if not stung to death by scorpions before. VSO are too soft.

We thought we’d send our Christmas letter early this year just to make sure you received one in time. The days and weeks are flying by and it will be December 25th before you know it. In the 1950’s & 60’s the days/weeks/years lasted twice as long. Now they are gone in a flash. What shall we blame, the EU, global warming or the ravages of old age?

The last, no doubt. Well, before we became too old, Georgina and I thought we’d do some “VSO” (Voluntary Service Overseas). It’s either that or sinking into premature retirement, flopping into an armchair, watching day-time TV and dribbling down your front. Well, come to think of it…….. No, we’ve decided to go to Namibia for two years. You know it, that desert country comprising one big sand dune to the north left of South Africa. Britain is getting too crowded. We’re giving our space up to give you a bit more room and we’re going to the world’s second most sparsely country after Mongolia.

The capital of Namibia is Windhoek (pronounced Windhoek). We shall be in Rundu on the northern border with Angola. The country is free from malaria apart from one area which happens to be on the northern border with Angola. VSO finds it difficult to place 2 volunteers together, so the usual thing is for one person to be placed and their accompanying partner to find something when they get there. Georgina will be “Co-ordinator for Inclusive Education” dealing mainly with sensory impairments. Accommodation is provided but we shall be sharing a house with other volunteers. I suppose taking up the bagpipes might be a good idea at this time.

We are letting out house in Theydon Bois so are trying to use this as a good excuse for clearing out thirty-six years of accumulated clutter. If all goes well we will moving out at the end of August.

Georgina says,

VSO is an international development charity that uses the skills of professional people to tackle poverty in 40 of the world’s poorest countries. It is currently supporting 1,700 volunteers. I am trying to raise money for VSO by doing a sponsored head shave. It would be great if you could sponsor me by sending a donation or looking at www.justgiving.com/georginahayes. Hoping to keep in touch with you all by email (georgina_hayes@hotmail.com) or you can follow our progress at www.hayestacks.co.uk or on Facebook.

Please donate now.
Oh, and by the way, Happy Christmas.

Love from Georgina and Nigel. xx