Living for Disco

Bike buying in Namibia seems to be quite a difficult task.

My flatmate took me to the Trade Centre on Friday in order to purchase my independence, and I came away with much less hair than I went in with, and a black cloud of doom floating over my head.

The Trade Centre is a bizarre place – it’s a vast warehouse, with bulk goods lining the aisles, most of which rise 20 feet up to the ceiling. They even have a giant polystyrene cow above the dairy section, which, if I was still a student, I would be determined to have in pride of place in my front room. If you ever want a lifetime’s supply of OMO washing powder, or a bag of biltong the size of a large pillow, the Trade Centre’s your best bet. They sell everything from cheese to pool tables, and it’s all very cheap.

The man at the bike department had originally told me that if I returned at the end of the week, I would be able to purchase one of the new deliveries of bike that have frames built for those of us who wear skirts. I arrived on Friday to be greeting with a blank countenance, and a distinct lack of available bikes. I kind of expected this however, and as he was quite friendly and sort of helpful, I decided to compromise, and buy a man’s bike.

The first one I tried had a severely wonky wheel. When I pointed it out, the salesman merely nodded, as if this was to be expected. I pointed to an almost identical bike, which happened to be $100 more expensive, and asked why there was a difference in the price.

Him: This one has the wrong price. It is $500, not $400.
Me: Why is it more expensive?
Him: I think it is better.
Me: Yes, but why? What has it got that this one hasn’t (apart from a straight front wheel?)
Him: Err, it is better, the quality, it is better.
Me: But they have the same number and quality of gears, they’re both steel frames, both exactly the same specifications, why is it more expensive?
Him: It is better. The quality is better. [pauses, and then points to the cheaper model] I think this one also is better. They are both better.

I have to confess to feeling sorry for the poor bastard. He obviously knew next to nothing about bikes, and wasn’t used to being asked questions, so I plumped for the more expensive one, and asked him to get me a new one. On closer inspection I noted that the tyres were completely flat. I decided to try out the pump to make sure it fit. It didn’t. He didn’t believe me, and spent 10 minutes unsuccessfully trying to force air into an entirely unresponsive inner tube.

Me: Well, could you have the tyres pumped up for me, at least?
Him: Ah, no. We cannot use the company’s pump. You must go to a service station.
Me: How am I supposed to get there on a bike with flat tyres?
Him: I don’t know.

And so I left, and went for a beer instead.

Today was a bit more successful. My new friend Marius and I were passed from pillar to post, eventually ending up in a warehouse where they fix bikes sent over from Europe, and sell them. My bike is great for three reasons. It’s purple, it’s cheap, and no-one will ever, ever steal it. It looks like a piece of crap. It’s a real, beat up, sit up and beg, pootle-round-Amsterdam-in-the-1960s bike. It’s even got an old dynamo. I love it. For some reason I can’t fathom, I got attached to it as soon as I saw it.

Now all I have to do is buy a helmet…