Hayestack

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

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

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

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

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

By the end of the week’s training session in Windhoek everyone was anxious to reach their placement and start doing their bit for Namibia. Some were staying in Windhoek but most were going to see the real Africa up north. The details of where we would all be living were sketchy at best. Georgina and I knew, for example, that we would be sharing a house with established volunteers, Linda and Rose, and new girl, Karin, who is Dutch and makes her name sound like “Garry”. Other knew precious little. Alison, for example was told by the previous volunteer that she would have a mattress under the desk in her office in the middle of nowhere. He didn’t seem to be joking, she told me with alarm. When pressed about other aspects of the placement he was either non-committal or avoided the question altogether. This inevitably raised concern and not a little anxiety. His claims that he enjoyed the job were less than convincing. Nevertheless, Alison, to her credit, determined to carry on manfully (or should it be womanfully) and is now, no doubt snug on her mattress under the desk in her office in the middle of nowhere.

It is not that she came totally unequipped. Her former colleagues had had a whip around and bought her a very smart jungle hat which to my mind bore a striking resemblance to a female version of the old colonial pith helmet. It led me to wonder if her colleagues, in giving Alison this elegant and, moreover, useful gift, they weren’t actually taking it (the pith, that is).

It was in these last days in Windhoek that we met Namibia’s future top model. She was sure of this and, judging by her tall, slim body, air of grace and deportment I wouldn’t be surprised if she were right. Georgina and I were heading in the same direction as Albertina down one of the back streets towards the centre of Windhoek when she introduced herself. She was certainly more friendly than any supermodel I had read about. She was still in training so probably hadn’t done the module on surliness and phone throwing yet. We walked down Robert Mugabe Avenue and I had an overwhelming desire to spit, which is strange because I never feel that way when walking down Nelson Mandela Avenue. Mugabe apparently is regarded by many African leaders as a father figure for his role in helping his country achieve independence, but his present work of systematically destroying his own people seems to be strangely overlooked. Maybe Hitler would have been forgiven the holocaust had he won his war.

There wasn’t much room in the mini-bus when the six of us going to Rundu had piled in with our entire luggage. Georgina and I sat in the back, our journey made more interesting by the imminent collapse of the luggage stacked behind us. An unexpected zebra crossing, or wart hog, or ostrich could have caused an avalanche.

The seven hour journey from Windhoek took us through continuous scrub land, the tedium of which was alleviated at regular intervals by the small towns of Okahandja, Otjiwarongo, Otavi and Grootfontein. Try saying those after your third bottle of Windhoek Beer (or before it if it comes to that). The roads were metalled, straight and quiet, though not deserted. An occasional mountain would rear up in the distance then disappear. Hannah asked where the Red Line was. I said I knew a Red Lion in Shrewsbury but she was less than amused. Then we were upon it. Armed guards eyed us suspiciously. Beyond this was rabies country. As they let us through I made a mental note not to foam at the mouth on the way back.

We drew near to Rundu and the scenery began to change. There were more trees and groups of huts began to appear. These were mostly made of traditional materials, branches and thatch though here and there were shacks of corrugated iron to blot the landscape. Occasionally, an abandoned and rusting car with its wheels missing added an extra touch of western squalor. But that’s progress for you.

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.

The Otjari Hostel sits comfortably on a hill overlooking the modern city of Windhoek. It is blue sky city. The air is clean and the sun shines all day. But all is not well in paradise. The high metal railings and barbed wire that surround most properties, the security guards outside many shops, hostel alarms and warnings that the hostel was being targeted by criminals (there had been a break-in the previous week) would could have scared the living daylights out of any of us. We must walk to the shops in groups, treat every stranger as a potential mugger and question the motives of anyone who dareds to say hello. It would take a little while to relax and take the same precautions as if you were walking the street s of East London, though the British social security system denies London thieves the excuse of abject poverty. I may be stupid, but if I had to be mugged, and I never wish to be, I would rather the dreadful deed were done by someone trying to prevent his family from dying than by a drug-crazed yob who might blow it on the latest rap album or a gram of crack cocaine.

Early Sunday morning found us taking the guide book tour of the city. The streets were practically deserted and the few cars would toot their horns and wave at us. How friendly, I thought , and waved back. Obviously, anyone with half a brain cell would have realized that these were taxis touting for business.

Walking down Independence Avenue was like walking along the High Street of any Western city, smart shops, interspersed with older architecture and a few statues of former heroes long, and often deservedly, forgotten. But wait. Here’s an installation of old rocks. They are meteorites, part of a shower that hit the Namib desert millions of years ago. This is something that Oxford Street doesn’t have. Also, where on the Champs Elysées would you happen upon the fossilised head of an elephant set on a plinth to mark the place of an ancient elephant cemetery?

We climbed the hill to the Christus kirche and watched smartly dressed Germans carrying, not beach towels, but Bibles, walk soberly through the main door. The thought of an hour or so of unrelenting German at such an early time in the morning, admittedly broken up by a beautiful Bach chorale or two, was enough to stop us following them. Instead, we headed for the neighbouring Parliament Building and watched the many black lizards with spotted yellow heads sun themselves on the low walls.

By the fountain on the lush lawns the statue of Charlie Chaplin turned out not to be the British-born actor but one of the founding fathers of Namibia. Reassured by this, we headed down the hill towards the President’s house. This was a low, unassuming bungalow that might have belonged to your retired , admittedly well-heeled grandparents. It was here that Georgina was nearly shot as a potential insurgent. I’d always suspected she had a double life, a female James Bond, Jane Bond, I suppose. She couldn’t resist the impulse to cross the road and peer through the imposing gates like an innocent tourist.

She hadn’t reached the cats’ eyes in the middle of the road (if there had been any) when, “Hey, you” yelled a gruff voice. We spun around to see a sweating gorilla of a soldier pointing his submachine gun directly at Georgina. Had I been the slightest bit chivalrous or even had my wits about me I should have thrown myself between Georgina and the soldier to take the bullets. Fortunately, I was neither of these and stood frozen to the spot, my life flashing before my eyes. I’d just got to early adolescence when,

“I just wanted a peep through the gates,” I heard Georgina plead.

“You can’t do that,” said the soldier, eyeing her for grenades hidden beneath her clothing. Fortunately, her contours were such that they would immediately display the slightest unusual bump, though she may have successfully have concealed them about her upper person.

“It’s not like Buckingham Palace, then?”

The soldier looked bemused and grunted nervously, his trigger finger twitching uncontrollably.

Georgina inched carefully to the right side of the road, smiling in the most sincere way she knew how. The soldier’s gaze followed her every movement as we carefully progressed down the hill and moved out of the soldier’s range of vision.