Hayestack

To reach Henties Bay we had to cross the Namib Desert. This is reputed to be one of the oldest in the world and I hoped our little Sirion car was tough enough to bounce its way across. This was no place to get marooned. As we approached the Atlantic coast the sky became overcast and fog began to develop. It only took five minutes and I began to miss clear, blue skies and sunshine. We had passed from summer to autumn in a few moments. The sky was leaden and the air cold. We hit the Atlantic coast at right angles and headed south to Henties Bay. This stretch of coast is a favourite for South African fishermen who gather here in shoals. The town was shrouded in mist and deserted. I had not felt so miserable about visiting the sea since we had turned up at Morecombe Bay in the drizzle many years before. This certainly wasn’t the hot, sunny Africa we had become used to. We had brought tents but we could not bring ourselves to face the inevitable misery involved. We found a tolerable apartment advertised in a local supermarket. Once we had a roof for the night Georgina announced she wanted to drive up to Cape Cross to see the large colony of seals. To me it was a plan guaranteed to make us more miserable. But it was good. As we walked onto the boardwalk viewing platform the noise and stench from the fat, slimy creatures hit you. There were thousands of heads bobbing around but only one toilet, the beach. The colony was a huge food store for hyena and black-backed jackals. We had seen a jackal on the road to the beach and were warned that they were often rabid. On the edge of the seal colony a dead jackal lay on the rocks and, sure enough, it had been foaming at the mouth.

I was delighted to leave Henties Bay behind us early the next morning hoping we would escape the gloom in Swakopmund. We didn’t. Either the depression followed us, or it was already there. Admittedly, we did not see Swakopmund at it’s sunny best, but one could get the idea of this Namibian Weston-super-mare, teeming with South African and German holiday-makers and wishing you weren’t there. We did, however, have a delicious mug of hot chocolate in a smart cafe just around the corner from the beach, but the owner, who welcomed us with open arms when we arrived, greeted our departure with brusque indifference. Maybe we didn’t spend enough? Still, the hot chocolate and restrooms were welcome. We visited Paul’s antique shop and marvelled at the souvenirs from the Third Reich but resisted buying a German military helmet, though it might have fitted under the bed and been useful at night.

Swakopmund was a disappointment. Walvis Bay was worse. It is a working fishing port and has an air of shabbiness and decay about it. Fresh fish would be the natural thing to eat for lunch. But the best we could find was a Kentucky Fried Chicken, which we took to the attractive lagoon in the better part of the town, where we sat eating our American fast food looking at the flock of flamingos.

Hopefully, the world’s highest sand dunes at Sosousvlei would be different. They were spectacular and were at their best at first light looking just like the photos you see in the guide books and the Windows desktop image. We drove down the winding road between the dunes to reach the car park and the short trek to the main dunes, meaning to take photographs of the dunes we passed on the way back. Of course, the light had changed by then and most of the dramatic shadows had softened. We climbed the ridge of one of the highest dunes and galumphed our way back down the side. I didn’t break my neck and felt ten years old again.

We headed back towards Windhoek as there were only a few days before Sally’s flight to the UK. The dirt road through the scrub seemed endless and our bodies continued to vibrate even when the car had stopped. It was a relief to arrive at the tar road at Malteghohe and find our campsite for the night. This was situated in the front garden of a house and craft studio. The lady of the house kept a few dogs which she let prowl around the camping area at will. One of these was large, powerful and aggressive. “They are good dogs and won’t get in your way,” she reassured us. One, a powerful-looking Rottweiler, she kept caged up during the day, letting it scare off intruders at night. She had to introduce it to us so that it did not take us for burglars and eat us. It sniffed our tent, cocked his leg and weed on it. We lit a fire to cook our food. The dogs sat with us looking hungry and expectant. I, for one, was not prepared to argue if they decided our food belonged to them. We cooked and they stared and licked their lips. The tension became unbearable. In the end we had to ask the owner to lock her pack away from us, which she did. “By the way, she added. I always let the pony out at night to have a walk around.” We cowered in bed that night listening to the clip, clop of heavy metal hooves inches from our heads and we hoped the pony would not copy the disrespect to our tent shown by the Baskerville hound, at least, not while we were in it.

Back in Windhoek we had a proper bed at the Rivendell Guest House, and, boy, did it feel good. Our little Sirion had brought us back safely and looked weary, having travelled thousands of miles around Namibia, as it sat in the car park caked with mud. “What would Simon, our car expert in the family do?” I thought to myself. So I gave it a good wash.

It was sad to say goodbye to Sally and watch her drive off to the airport But we had Christmas to look forward to when we would meet up, not only with our children, but the Maust family, too. Wow.

We stayed in Rundu for the next few days to catch our breath before heading south to the Etosha National Park and the coast. This gave us a chance to chill out, and for Sally to visit Georgina’s school and meet the learners. On our way to Etosha we camped overnight at Treesleepers where elevated platforms allow you to pitch your tent amongst the branches of the trees. A wooden spiral staircase is built in, so you don’t actually have to climb the tree. It is a long and perilous way to the lavatory from the platform, so if you think you can hear the distant sound of Victoria Falls in the middle of the night you can imagine what is occurring. Unless the moon is shining, the total blackness and absolute absence of artificial light will protect anyone’s modesty.

The Etosha National Park is the main Game Reserve in Namibia. It covers a vast area and has a large, dried up lake at its heart. If you’re lucky, you can see any number of zebra, springbok, Kudu, giraffe, wildebeste, elephant, etc. You have to be lucky to see lion and rhino, and really lucky to see leopard or cheetah. Buy a lottery ticket on that day. Naturally, when the animals hear that we are arriving, they scoot over to the other side of the park which is closed to visitors. In the several times we have visited we have seen most animals in various numbers, but we have not yet had occasion to do the lottery. With Sally we took the main route through Etosha stopping at the best waterholes on the way. Leaving one, we saw the biggest herd of zebra we have ever seen, coming out of the bush and heading straight towards us in our parked car. I hesitate to say this but no doubt they were looking for the zebra crossing. One of the most striking features of Etosha is the dried up salt lake at its heart. We drove onto the pan and surveyed the stark whiteness all around us. It’s an amazing sight. The Halali rest camp, with its shop, restaurant, information centre and watering hole, is a tourist village half way along the main route. The camping site resembles a hardcore car park which did not look at all appealing. I am told that the once pristine ablution block have deteriorated a lot. At the Anderrson Gate, the Park’s exit, we climbed the old brick tower and watched 2 old elephants destroying a tree just below us. As it would soon be getting dark we found a campsite just down the road. We arrived just before a large safari bus full of intrepid explorers who, fortunately preferred exploring the other side of the campsite.

We set off early the next morning for Outjo and, beyond that, the Atlantic coast. Sally was driving and enjoying the blue skies and empty, straight road. We were travelling fast, but safely. We could see as far as a mile ahead. The two black dots on the road ahead gradually turned into little figures, larger men and then full-sized policemen. Unfortunately, one had his arm raised, beckoning us to stop. “What’s your hurry?” he asked, good-humouredly. It was 7am on Sunday morning, no other cars in a five mile radius. Why were the police mounting a road block just for us? They didn’t seem that serious about it anyway. They sent us on our way with the advice to drive more slowly as we were just entering Outjo. He was right and the whole town seemed asleep apart from a few pedestrians and a couple of bare-breasted Himba women plus baby sitting by the side of the road selling jewellery. We took photos and Sally bought a trinket. Suddenly, a line of police cars shot around the corner at great speed, sirens blazing. Was the US President in town and under terrorist attack? The police response could not have been greater. We drove around and discovered police officers on every corner. At 7 o’clock on a Sunday morning this must have been a training exercise and explained our road block on the edge of town.

From Outjo we headed towards Khorixas. The deserted road was metalled, the scenary picturesque. Instead of the ubiquitous, flat, somewhat tedious, Namibian scrubland, we had interesting, rolling, Namibian hills. I was looking forward to getting to Khorixas. The name sounded exotic and alluring, like Timbuktu or Xanadu. In fact, it turned out to be a dilapidated, one-horse town, with a donkey instead of the horse. It was shabby and sleepy, the people looking as though if they were still suffering the effects of too much homebrew the previous night. But there was a filling station, and it was foolish in this semi-arid desert to pass a filling station without filling. Who knows where the next one would be? A group of aging Hell’s Angels had parked their huge machines by every pump (at least 2) and didn’t seem in a hurry to move. I had almost decided to send Sally out to give them some grief, but they moved off before she could get at them, the cowards. Next to the garage was a supermarket that had a group of males hanging around the shop entrance looking bored and thirsty. They did not look too intimidating but they followed with their eyes every movement we made until we were safely inside the store. The best crisps in Namibia are Simba Creamy Cheddar. We could only find small bags but we bought them anyway. Talking about cheese, there is confusion about the different varieties in Namibia. There is only one sort of Cheddar that tastes anything at all like Cheddar and that is made by Parmalat. The rest is rubbery and processed tasting as though it was made of plasticine. There is Gouda which is actually Edam, and Edam here is more like Emmental. The fridges are stacked with feta cheese and there is a South African version of Brie that is quite pleasant. Variety and choice are two unknown words in the Namibian English dictionary.

We backtracked a kilometre down the road leaving Khorixas behind us without a second glance and headed for the Brandberg mountains. The tar soon gave way to gravel and we began to leave a large cloud of dust trailing behind us. There were no cars following us to be inconvenienced and we met few cars coming towards us. The journey was long and arduous, the highlight being when we passed through the sign saying we were crossing the Tropic of Capricorn, but it felt just the same on one side as the other. Although the mountains and undulating road made the scenery much more interesting than the tedious flat scrubland of our usual Windhoek – Rundu route, we were being constantly bounced up and down and buffeted by the gravel roads.

Before scrub gave way to desert, we came across a group of huts all selling small Herero rag dolls. The ladies selling them wore traditional Herero costume including the headdress that resembles a cow’s horns. This exhibition was pulling in the tourists and the ladies were doing a steady trade. The amusing thing was that the Herero costume was not traditional in that part of Namibia. Evidently, someone had decided it would be good for trade, and it was.

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.

                          Boarding the Intercape, Christmas Day

Early on Christmas morning we trudge through the Company Gardens for the last time. Now seasoned backpackers, we are comfortable carrying our rucksacks and other bags and no longer feel conspicuous as the ridiculous geriatrics we undoubtedly look. Hopefully we would inspire sympathy rather than violence from any mugger. David has dashed off at the last moment to buy his Christmas dinner and doesn’t return in time to say goodbye. We have cold chicken, olives, crisps, chocolate and other treats for lunch on the Intercape bus to Namibia. The station is already alive and a queue is forming. It must be about this time that two of our fellow travellers, a mother and son, are mugged here and lose all their possessions. We see and hear nothing and only find out about it once we are on the bus. Their lack of passports is a real problem at the border and delays our bus considerably. Our discomfort must be nothing to that felt by the victims who, so easily, could have been us.

We travel all day and night and arrive in Windhoek on Boxing Day. It is a public holiday and everything is shut. The lack of traffic makes it feels like a ghost town. The only people on the streets are young men who seem to be looking enviously at our possessions. We feel very vulnerable and a sense of panic rises within us. We’ll find a backpacker’s hostel and take refuge there. The empty streets fill us with concern. Every car seems dangerous. The backpackers is on the other side of town. We can’t find it. They have shut down. It no longer exists. The next one is a short walk away. They are open and will let us use their facilities, which includes a swimming pool, for just N$20 (£1.40) each. Our feeling of relief is palpable. But we have to cross the city again later that evening to catch the bus to Rundu. Windhoek is supposed to be a relatively safe, law-abiding city, and I was not expecting such a tangible feeling of menace when it is empty.

                                                           African sky

We arrive back in Rundu about midnight and, although relieved to be home, we are still suffering the after effects of our recent experiences. We decide to take a taxi even though we live only a short distance from the bus’ drop off point. The journey takes about 2 minutes, but since it is after midnight, the driver charges us at least double the usual rate (N$20). As the taxi drives away we realise we have left our tent and another bag in the back of the car. Forgetting paranoia, Georgina runs back through the dark streets to the taxi rank with me in hot pursuit. The driver hands over our luggage telling us what a good service he gives. He also tells us that the twenty dollars we gave him was not enough. We still owe him N$20. Unfortunately, we have left all cash at home. Besides, our ride had been short and we feel we have given him enough. He takes it in good part and, instead of running us down, offers us a free lift back home. Feeling brave, we decline his offer, preferring to walk the short distance home under the stars. Our Christmas in Africa 2008 draws to a very pleasant close.

  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.

Dusk descends as we leave Windhoek for Upington, South Africa. An Aussie accent breaks the silence. He is a boiler maker back home and works for only part of the year to make enough money to globe-trot. On this trip he has already been to India and northern Africa and is on his way to Pretoria, then on to South America. It appears that he has not seen much water on his travels and has certainly not wasted it on personal hygiene. His Medusan dreadlocks move as though they have a life of their own and his bushy beard is, no doubt, the home to many forms of wildlife. This lone Aussie is not alone. As we journey around South Africa we come across a number of antipodeans, each one travelling alone. Maybe they don’t like each other’s company?

There is even less room at the front of these buses than at the back. I try to stretch my legs and end up practically lying sprawled across Georgina’s lap. I hope I don’t push out the windscreen with my feet in my sleep, though this would certainly improve ventilation. We visit more filling stations throughout the night, each one identical to the last, and arrive at the border as the sun rises behind the distant mountains throwing a golden glow over the vast, arid plain stretching out before us. We make the mistake of using the dirty and, no doubt disease-ridden Namibian toilets to freshen up, unaware of the new South African ones at their custom post just down the road. This is no “drive through” border as between France and Germany. We queue at the Namibian customs and everything is checked. Half a mile down the road at the South African customs we do the same thing again. This time a sniffer dog is let loose on the bus and I hope it doesn’t find our sandwiches. At least this is a chance to stretch our legs and watch the sun rise. We are in South Africa. There are few trees and the social weaver birds have built giant nests enveloping telegraph poles by the side of the road. We don’t see any birds, so we assume they are being sociable inside.

The scenery has been created on an epic scale. Huge tracts of savannah spread out as far as the purple mountains on the horizon. There are no people, no animals except for a few zebras and ostriches which stir up dust clouds as they run. We eventually see a few ramshackle huts on the hillside but no occupants. Further along, a township comes into view. These are made of breeze blocks and regimented into tight rows. They seem the human equivalent of battery farming. Some huts are painted bright, garish colours possibly in an attempt to give them some character and individuality. The rest remain drab and ugly. The bus passes on giving us just a brief glimpse. We are lucky. Some people have to spend their lives there.

We are an hour late as we arrive at Upington. This is a thriving, commercial town with a large industrial zone on the outskirts. We learn later that Upington grows some of the sweetest melons in South Africa. The route gives us a tour of the industrial area on our way to the bus stop. Our first impressions are not favourable. When you’ve seen one factory…. Though we are late, our connecting bus will wait. Our new driver stands patiently by the bus that will take us on to Bloemfontein. There is no rush. This is Africa. We are alone on the bus. A few passengers join us. We wait for more. The idling engine fades and dies. The driver tries to restart it, but fails. This is not the luxury bus we are used to. It has seen better days. The engine eventually splutters into life but it is now making a high-pitched whine and peters out after a couple of minutes. Two drivers from our Upington bus take a look. They give our driver plenty of advice in Africaans but the engine still does not respond. They take out their mobile phones and gabble into them incomprehensibly. This, too, has no effect upon the engine. More drastic action is required. One driver lifts up the engine housing at the back of the bus and all but climbs in. He emerges with hands covered in oil and an expression on his face akin to that of Lady Macbeth after she has slain Duncan. “Is this a carburettor I see before me?” Astonishingly, the engine starts first time. Like Banquo’s ghost the whine gradually emerges from nowhere and the driver once more attacks the engine. The offending noise is exorcised and we take off while the going’s good. It is a matter of faith that we will eventually reach Bloemfontein. The whine threatens to emerge several times during the journey but periodic oblations of water are poured into the engine’s parched throat and catastrophe is averted.

We have crossed the Orange River (which is, in fact, brown) and are now in the Orange Free State. The area along the river is green, lush and fertile. We pass acres of vineyards and once more emerge onto vast arid plains. You can almost see hordes of Boers doggedly driving their cattle and wagons across the scrub to find a home free from British interference. The white tribe of Africa were, and still are, a tough race of fighter/farmers. They were up against it then and are up against it now. Their destiny is one of persistence and struggle.

Kimberley was famous for its diamond mines. Now it is famous for its Big Hole. We pass signs pointing to its Big Hole but go the other way. It is trying to turn itself into a tourist attraction, but just how interesting can a big hole be. Something inside me suggests that we have missed seeing a rare and wonderful sight. However, it is not difficult to suppress this feeling as we chug on accompanied by only a faint whine on our way to Bloemfontein. One thing surprises me about Kimberley. It seems that not much of the diamond wealth was spent on the town. The small part we see seems dowdy and provincial. There again, we do not see the Big Hole.

We try to send an sms text Kathleen, but our Namibian cell card doesn’t work here. We are running about 2 hours late and become concerned about poor Kathleen waiting for us in the heat. She may have dehydrated into a pile of dust by the time we arrive.

Bloemfontein lives up to its name. It is a garden city. Trees spring up as you enter its boundaries. Plant-life is diverse and profuse. Roads are grass-lined and well-cared for. People here love their environment and look after it. We drive past the new soccer stadium that will be needed for the World Cup in South Africa soon and eventually reach our terminus. Kathleen has already seen us and comes to greet her. She looks just the same as she did in Walthamstow all those years ago, and not at all dehydrated. These Boers are a tough race.

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.

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.